


The Queen and the Dragontamer

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Affectionate Insults, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Arthurian Gift Exchange, Banter, Dragons, F/F, Goddesses, M/M, Matriarchical Camelot, Minor Character Death, Symbolism, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7956409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Queen Ygraine Pendragon and Dragontamer Hunith Wyllt share a problem. Each of them despairs of ever finding a suitable bride for her son. And it doesn't help that the self-styled Queen of the Underworld is hell-bent on stealing away Ygraine's chosen heir for nefarious purposes of her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queen and the Dragontamer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LFB72](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFB72/gifts).



> Enormous thanks to my fabulous artist, LFB72, for creating such a fabulous array of brilliant art. I can't believe how incredibly you have brought this version of Camelot to life! It has been such a pleasure working with you, my dear, thank you for everything! Especially your patience with me as RL dealt me blow after blow and I ended up in a major last-minute accidental posting panic. Dear readers, please please please go and feast your eyes on the fantastic art masterpost [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7957186) and shower LFB72 with deserved praise. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank my long-suffering beta-readers Archaeologist_D and Tari_Sue for helping me to whip this monster into shape. Any remaining mistakes, stylistic howlers, wrong-way-round speech marks and unneccessary adverbs are all my own fault. Also thanks to the Chatzy crew for listening to me as I agonised over things. With a special mention to Narlth for sharing epic html-wrangling skills.
> 
> Disclaimer: These characters in their current incarnation are the property of the BBC and Shine productions. I'm merely playing with them and promise to put them back when I've finished.

 

As Merlin rode along the bustling street, he pulled his scarf up high to block out Camelot's stench. Rather than Ealdor's familiar metallic tang of magic mingled with leathery dragon-skin, the air was heavy with unfamiliar scents. Horses, of course, but also strange foods and an indefinable taint of unwashed human. Across everything lay a thick pall of acrid woodsmoke, for although spring flowers were beginning to poke through the slush, and pale sunlight flashed golden rays upon the citadel's high turrets, the land was still in the final grips of winter, and thick wisps of choking smoke whirled up from the roof of every hovel in the lower town. A fine sleet had fallen the day before. Slush mingled with dirt in great pools of mud that made each of the horse’s footfalls squelch instead of falling with a satisfying thud.

And the people wore odd garments. Not the peasants of course, their homespun cloths and rags were the same everywhere in Albion. Merlin spared a moment of sympathy for those who were arriving in the citadel on foot, their boots caked with mud and worse. But the townsfolk, mounted on gaily trimmed horses, looked splendid. The women wore gowns, nipped in at the waist, with flowing skirts in many hues that draped over the haunches of their mounts. And the men. The men! They wore rich, figure-hugging leather breeches, decorated in ornate patterns, and gaudy linen surcoats that would have been laughed at back in Ealdor.

Merlin didn’t laugh. The way that the men’s tight breeches showed off every muscle was far too distracting. Biting his lip, he watched as one fine fellow trotted past, his seat rising and falling in time with the horse’s gait, muscles straining against the fabric as if trying to break out.

“Stop gawking, Merlin,” said Hunith, her horse a tad behind his.

“What?” His head snapped back to meet her gaze. He hoped she hadn’t worked out what he’d been staring at.

“People will think you’re a provincial bumpkin. We’re here to petition the Queen – start acting like it.” She paused to cast a sympathetic glance at one poor chap who had slipped and sat, cursing, in the mud and effluent. “Although why Ygraine has to hold this betrothal festival at Ostara and not Walpurgisnacht I really don’t know. This weather is truly dreadful for travelling.”

“Of course, mother,” said Merlin, biting back a retort and shifting his weight in the saddle. “Sorry, mother.”

“And stop squirming and fidgeting,” she added. “You look like you have ants in your pants.”

“It’s these stupid horse saddles. Dragons are so much more comforta—”

“Merlin!”

“Yes, mother.”  He sighed. He’d been so excited about leaving Ealdor, couldn’t wait to see the great city and all, but they hadn’t even arrived yet, and already he was missing home. He could be out on Kilgharrah, now, checking on the herds in the springtime mountain pastures, or waiting for the early hatchlings and wrestling with Will in the upper caves. But, no, he had to petition this Queen for the so-called honour of wooing some spoilt brat of a princess instead. What need did he have for a princess? However clever or fierce a Camelot artisan or warrior maid might be, he couldn’t imagine them having a happy partnership. For his desires lay in another direction entirely.

No, this betrothal festival was going to be no fun at all.

Of course, he was not the only person in the same plight. All round him hapless young men thronged into central Camelot, decked out in their finest clothes. Not that he was complaining about that, the display was quite distracting. But presumably, like him, they were all here to bare their credentials before the throne – not literally, obviously, and he couldn’t help smirking at that thought – in a mad scramble to find the best possible match for their families.

Just then, another one of these distractingly handsome young men rounded the corner, golden hair almost blinding in the cold glare of the sunshine. Mounted on a splendid war horse, he was flanked by two equally well turned-out companions – one with hair close-cropped, and the other hawk-faced and bearded. As Merlin watched, the man in the centre, clearly the leader of the group, met his gaze, and his mouth spread wide in an appreciative grin.

Without thinking, Merlin slowed his horse, bringing her to a stop while Hunith and the rest of their entourage walked on. Dazzled by startling blue eyes, letting his mouth tilt up in a delighted half-smile, he stared back. With a darting glance, he checked that his mother had not yet noticed that he’d stopped. Then he let his gaze flick down the man’s finely muscled body, then back up, lingering on rosy lips, to meet his eyes.

The man sobered for a second, pulling up his own horse, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead. His companions moved on a few paces.

“Do I know you?” said the man. “You seem familiar, somehow.” His voice was honey mixed with something dangerous that sent thrills shivering down Merlin’s spine.

Merlin moistened his lips before replying, pleased with the way that the other man’s eyes followed the movement.

“Not yet,” he said, lowering his lashes for a second, then looking back up with a smile.

“In that case I look forward to making your… close… acquaintance…” Startling blue eyes took on a predatory look that made Merlin’s belly tighten and breath hitch.

“Merlin! Come on!” yelled his mother furiously, breaking the tension that crackled in the air.

“Duty calls.” Merlin rolled his eyes. “See you later – maybe?” He lifted a hopeful eyebrow.

“Maybe!” The other man laughed, so carefree and joyful that Merlin couldn’t help laughing back. “I certainly hope so. Some of us will be taking mead and ale in the house of The Rising Sun later, to escape from all this interminable Beltane betrothal nonsense. Perhaps you’d like to join us?  Walk on, Hengroen!” With a click of his tongue, he tapped his horse’s flanks and carried on down the path.

“Perhaps I would,” said Merlin. He couldn’t help turning his head to watch the little group’s progress, rewarded with an eyeful of tight leather breeches that left nothing to the imagination. It seemed that Camelot, even if it did stink like an unwashed sow, had its compensations.

“Come along, Merlin, we haven’t got all day.” Hunith had backed her horse up, and was frowning at him. “We must go to our quarters and prepare for tomorrow’s banquet.”

“Of course, Mother,” he said, ever the dutiful son, already plotting his escape later that evening. Tomorrow’s banquet be damned. He folded the tingle of anticipation tight into his chest, a golden heat that burned inside him, making his heart pound and his mouth feel dry. "Coming, Mother."

 

 

 

 

 

By day, the Rising Sun was a respectable tavern, its clientele mostly composed of merchants and travellers seeking sustenance for the afternoon’s business, or accommodation overnight. But by night, the denizens of Camelot emerged from their daily activities and came together to fritter all their hard-earned coin on other rather less mainstream forms of commerce. Mingled voices and laughter erupted onto the street outside, while a merry tune on fiddle and drum accompanied the din.

Feeling greatly daring, Merlin paused outside for only a moment before plunging into the sea of sound, heart pounding, magic on full alert for hidden dangers.

In the end, it had taken a sleeping spell on his mother, a sobering spell on a guardsman and a flirtatious moment with a sturdy kitchen boy, but he had finally managed to escape, dressed in his ordinary clothes to avoid unwarranted attention.

He hovered for a moment just inside the door, his eyes darting here and there, trying without success to pick out the blond head and bright smile that had attracted him earlier. But it was no good, the tavern was too crowded. Worse, a throng of cackling young women cornered him as he came in.

Heads swivelled. His skin prickled under the scrutiny.

"Ooh! A new one!" said a high-pitched voice. "He's pretty! And all by himself, as well! Want some company, precious?"

"Excuse me!" he said, trying to sidle past as they eyed him up. "Ow!" A sharp jab on his left buttock made him yelp.  "Stop that! I'm meeting someone!"

"Shame!" said a blond-haired girl who couldn't have seen more than eighteen summers. She licked her lips, head tilted to one side. "Sure you won't change your mind...?"

"No!" he said firmly. Heat blazed across his face and neck. Heart pounding, he elbowed his way through the rowdy group, standing beside a long, over-fragrant line of unwashed peasants as he waited to be served. The dark, ale-stained oak bar drenched his forarms where he leaned against it. Dull, pewter tankards dangled above it, in marked contrast to the array of shiny, golden horse-brasses that decked the blackened beams above his head. 

The barkeep, a florid-faced woman with a pleasant smile and plump, pale arms, dealt efficiently with the thirsty hordes. She stacked an array of foam-topped ales upon the bar, sweeping coins into her skirts and deflecting the good-natured jeers of her customers with well-timed jibes of her own.

In one corner, a huge lad dressed in leather stood glowering at everyone, toying with a mean-looking bludgeon. At his feet, a slavering, sharp-toothed hound worried at a thick bone. The implication was clear. Behave yourself, and you'll enjoy your evening. Step out of line, and pain would ensue. From the raucous laughter that filled the air, and the lack of overt injuries, this arrangement worked very well.

Merlin grabbed his ale with one hand, dropping a copper penny onto the damp countertop. It vanished with a swift flick of the barkeep's fingers. Carefully he picked his way through a group of loudly arguing men, warriors or mercenaries by the look of their scarred faces and stained leather clothing, and settled with a relieved sigh upon a wooden bench, slurping at his ale and peeking through the melee in search of a familiar face.

“Hello pretty!” A fishwife on one side of him leered at him through exposed gums. She pinched his cheeks, hard. The lace of her bodice was stained and ill-fitting.

“Ow! Don’t do that.” He shuffled along the bench a little to escape the stench of her breath when she cackled, and buried his face in his tankard.

“Awww, go on.” He felt a warm hand on his knee. “I could make you very happy.”

“Erm. I’m not – that is, I’m sure you’re very, but I haven’t…” he blabbed, lifting her hand from his leg and shying away a little more, until he fetched up hard against the warm body of someone else who had slipped in next to him, trapping him. “I mean, I’m not looking for, you know. I just want to. Um.”

“That’s a shame,” drawled a lazy, familiar sounding voice from the other side of him. “Because I was rather hoping that you were looking for… you know.”

Startled, Merlin turned to meet sunny blue eyes.

“There’s no need to be a prat about it,” he blurted, immediately biting his lip to shut himself up. “But yeah, actually, now you come to mention it.”

“Good.” A strong hand gripped his wrist, hauling him to his feet. His ale slopped over the top of the tankard. "Come on!"

“Oi!” said the fishwife. “I saw him first!” She peered at the newcomer, squinting. "Hey, aren't you the P—"

“Oh no, you didn’t,” interrupted Merlin’s rescuer, tossing her a coin. “Go on, I’m sure you have other fish to fry.”

Merlin didn’t see how she reacted, because he was being tugged along, connected by the searing heat around his wrist, anticipation flaring in his belly as he tried not to spill any more of his drink. He let Arthur lead the way, paying no heed to tavern's layout nor the route Arthur took through the labyrinth of bare-wood corridors. The perfect curve of Arthur's arse where it strained against the thin leather of his breeches was far too distracting. 

Soon, they entered a private room, loud with the rattle of dice, punctuated with the raucous laughter of the winners, and the heavy groans of the losers. The racket created a cocoon, a wall of sound around them. Players and spectators yelled out wagers and exchanged coins. The smell of woodsmoke and stale ale faded, overwhelmed by a miasma of hot, unwashed flesh and nervous excitement.

“I’m Arthur,” said the man, making no move to relinquish his hold on Merlin’s wrist even once they were seated with a prime view of the game. A lock of pale hair tumbled across his forehead, almost into his eye.

“Merlin. Thanks for rescuing me.” Merlin’s pulse raced and his fingers trembled, longing to brush that curl out of Arthur’s face.

“You’re welcome. Are you all right? Couldn’t bear to see that horny old hag’s hands on your perfect skin.” Arthur traced circles on Merlin’s bare forearm, so that goosebumps pebbled his skin, and he shivered. “Are you cold?”

“No, I’m fine,” said Merlin. Indeed, when he met Arthur’s solicitous gaze he felt a deep blush stain his face, and it was nothing to do with the ale or the crush of bodies. “Hot, actually.”

“Yes.” Arthur licked his lips, dark tongue circling rosy lips. “Me too. What say you to cooling down with me. I could order some mead, I have credit here. There is a room back there… We could get better acquainted…”

“Yes!” said Merlin, before Arthur had a chance to finish his sentence, his heart clamouring so wildly in his chest that he thought for a moment it was trying to escape. And this was all moving too fast, whatever it was, but he wanted it. There was no denying that. “To whatever you are offering. Yes.”

“Gods.” Arthur spoke in a low voice, then groaned deep and long, sending Merlin’s scattered thoughts flying. “I had hoped, when we met today… Gods! Look at you, so full of fire and mischief. Only the gods know how much I want you.”

“And I, you,” whispered Merlin, the truth of that statement singing through every fibre, every bone of his body, making his heart race and his cock swell hot and heavy against his hip. This was his first, last and only chance to be with a man before he would have to lock away his desires forever in the name of duty. And what a man! Bold and handsome, with an appraising gaze that brought heat flooding Merlin's cheeks. Silently, he thanked the Goddess for his good fortune. “But I don’t have much time.”

“Me neither.” Arthur sucked in his bottom lip, as if thinking, and when it sprang back, pink and wet, Merlin’s heart nearly stopped. “Come.”

Arthur tugged Merlin to his feet. The crowds closed in around them, oblivious.

 

 

 

  

The room was little more than a cupboard with a bare cot along one wall. Merlin was impressed at the ease with which Arthur procured a key from the barkeep on such a busy night. As soon as the door was closed, Arthur turned, crowding him against it with a groan. When their lips met, heat pooled behind his bellybutton, making him pant and moan through parted lips. Their breath mingled hot and frantic, a heady cocktail of recklessness and desire.

Merlin tilted his head, giving Arthur more room, squeezing his eyes shut. An inquisitive tongue probed at the seam between his lips. After a moment of initial shock, Merlin parted them willingly, giving Arthur's mouth an experimental lick. The taste of mead and desire mingled to make his pulse race and his cock thicken, hot and insistent against his braes. with frantic hands he tugged at Arthur's arse, pressing their groins together. The heat and rub of Arthur's answering erection against him made him gasp, giddy with lust. 

“Gods, Merlin.” Pulling back, Arthur scrabbled at the tie of Merlin’s braes, fingers clumsy from mead. “I’m not wrong, am I? You want this as much as I do! Tell me it’s true.”

“Gods, yes.” With a flash of his eyes, Merlin dealt with the unruly cord and the offending article fell in a crumpled heap to the floor, leaving him bare and hard, pressing into Arthur’s fist with frantic movements of his hips. “Please, Arthur.” He didn’t know what he was begging for, only its extreme urgency.

 

 

 

 

 

“Whoa, little bird! Look at you. So wild for me. You’re like an untamed animal,” said Arthur, his voice cracking with some emotion Merlin couldn’t fathom. He buried his face into Merlin’s neck, and sucked a hard bruise there. The sharp pain made Merlin cry out, hips canting forward into the warmth of Arthur’s touch, the deep surge of desire within him flashing over him like a flame. “Calm down. I’ll make this good for you, I promise.”

Tucking his hands beneath Merlin’s buttocks, Arthur carried him to the bench.

Merlin sat stride him, his cock jutting up, begging for attention. Merlin could feel Arthur’s arousal hard against the soft flesh of his balls, and he ground against it with a gentle rocking motion that made Arthur groan out loud. This was what he had come to Camelot for, right here. Losing himself in the bliss of heat and flesh, sweat-salt skin on his tongue, the drum of his pulse drowning out all other sound.

He rutted into Arthur’s palm, breath coming out in tiny, urgent gusts.

“Arthur,” he moaned against the molten-gold skin of Arthur’s neck, sucking a bruise onto Arthur’s collar bone. His rhythm started to falter, he couldn’t last like this. “I can’t… I've never...”

“It’s all right.” said Arthur, voice rumbling low against Merlin’s chest.

His free hand wormed between Merlin’s legs, cupping Merlin’s balls, holding their weight firm against Merlin’s body with a delicious pressure, while one finger teased at the tight muscle behind them. All the while, a firm, calloused hand pulling on Merlin’s length in a slow, inexorable slip-slide of slick flesh.

Merlin’s breathing stuttered and the intense sensation made him cry out, as his focus shifted to a pinpoint of pleasure that built over a long moment. He buried his nose into Arthur’s jerkin, hitching up his hips to give Arthur’s busy hands more space. And afterwards, he’d forever associate the he scent of leather with the blissful friction of Arthur’s hands against his cock and balls.

“Arthur,” he gasped.

“Come on,” said Arthur. “Come for me. I want to see it. I want to feel it. I want to _taste_ it.”

“Oh, fuck!” said Merlin. A deep bliss radiated through his thighs, his arse, his belly, the tight crease behind his balls, into his jutting cock. When he spent, a wave of ecstasy burst through him in heavy, drugging pulses.

“Fuck,” echoed Arthur.

“I’m so sorry!” Merlin rolled off him, gazing at the mess he’d made. “I’ve got seed in your hair! I’ll clean that up, I promise--”

“Fuck that,” growled Arthur, grabbing Merlin’s wrist. He guiding Merlin’s hand to his own cock, straining against the fabric of his clothes. “It can wait. Finish me off first.”

“Bossy!” Merlin grinned and rubbed weakly at Arthur’s tenting britches.

Arthur groaned.  His hips rocked and he arched his neck back so that Merlin could see his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

Merlin pressed harder, fascinated by the heat and weight of Arthur’s arousal. A sudden idea hit him, and his spent cock twitched again at the thought. With another flash of magic, he loosened the ties on Arthur’s britches, sliding them down to his knees so that his swollen cock sprang free.

“Oh, Gods, yes!” Arthur slammed his head back against the pillow, hips flexing, hand straying towards his cock as if to finish himself off with a few quick strokes.

“Wait!” said Merlin in a hoarse whisper. He batted Arthur’s hand away.

“Are you always this much of a tease?” said Arthur. He propped himself up onto his elbows. With his thick, cock, flushed face, slack mouth and  slicked-up hair, he was a vision of debauchery that Merlin would take to his dreams for years to come.  

“Impatient as well as bossy!” Sliding down the bed, Merlin straddled Arthur’s still clad knees and placed both hands upon Arthur’s bare thighs. Thick muscles strained against his fingers. His own cock swelled in response.

Bending to nuzzle at the hot, musky crease twixt thigh and hip, Merlin probed at it with his tongue.

“Fuck!” Arthur clutched at Merlin’s hair.

Strong hands guided Merlin’s head towards the dripping tip of Arthur’s cock.

Taking this as a sign to continue, Merlin moistened his lips and leaned forward to take the head of Arthur’s bobbing cock into his mouth. He slid his tongue around it, before closing his lips over his teeth, and letting its weight gentle against the roof or his mouth.

“Merlin,” whispered Arthur. His thighs tensed, and the grip of his fingers against Merlin's scalp tightened. “Fuck!”

Closing his eyes, Merlin dipped his head lower. Arthur’s cock glided past his lips and against the rough of his tongue. Remembering what Arthur had done earlier, he slipped one hand between Arthur’s legs and cupped Arthur’s balls between his fingers.

Arthur cried out, as if in warning

Fuck it. If this was going to be Merlin’s last time with a man, he wanted to make it count. He dipped his mouth low with a remorseless rhythm that matched the beating of his heart.

Arthur’s hips and arse flexed as he spent, slack-mouthed, letting out little erratic gasps.

Merlin swallowed down every bitter, salty mouthful. 

 

 

 

 

 

Later, when they lay on the hard cot, ignoring its discomfort, they discovered that they had plenty in common, despite their differences in appearance.

“So, what brings a scrawny-legged traveller like you to these parts?” said Arthur, tracing maddening circles in on the nape of Merlin’s neck, twisting Merlin’s hair with his finger until he shivered and hummed with the sheer sensual pleasure of it.

“Hey! You just ravished those limbs most thoroughly! Have some respect!” said Merlin in mock outrage, twisting up onto one elbow to take a good look at Arthur’s handsome face while he could. With his chiselled jaw and rough-hewn nose, he resembled a hero of old, a demi-god risen from the Greek legends. Albeit a thoroughly debauched hero, with his sated cock resting limp against his belly and the remnants of Merlin’s spend on his discarded clothes.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like them,” said Arthur, his smirk not entirely ruining the arresting picture he made, with his sweat-dark hair all ruffled and his chin dark with stubble.

“Hmm. Well. That’s as may be,” said Merlin, returning his grin. “Anyway. It's the whole betrothal season thing. Plus, I’m a sorcerer and Mother says I’m to be wed to an enchantress. She's got it all planned, apparently.”

He tamped down a wave of resentment and shrugged.

“A sorcerer? I knew it,” said Arthur, eyes dancing with mischief. “You have enchanted me.”

“I have enchanted you with my magic?” Merlin widened his smile and crooked his head on one side. “But then how do you explain how you have beguiled me? Do you have magic, too?”

“No,” said Arthur, his voice rumbling beneath the palm that Merlin had placed on his chest. “That’s just my natural charm and charisma.”

“Well it certainly isn’t your humility!” said Merlin, chuckling. “And what about my natural charm and charisma?”

“Nah. It can’t have been that. Look at you with your scrawny arms and your bony chest.” These words might have stung if Arthur hadn’t punctuated them with feather-light kisses to Merlin’s ribs and  arms as he spoke, kisses that raised bumps on his skin and made him arch his spine in sheer pleasure. “Your puny elbows.” Kiss. “Your elegant wrists.” Nuzzle. “Your sinful mouth.” Wet heat and a sucking sensation around Merlin's forefinger made him gasp, overwhelmed. To his surprise, his cock began to thicken again. 

It was going to be a long night.

 

 

 

 

 

By the time that Merlin, tired and deliciously sore, trudged on foot back to the quarters he was sharing with his mother in the citadel, silvery fingers of daylight were already spreading across the eastern skies. Quickly, he shed his clothes. With a muttered spell, he restored himself into some semblance of cleanliness, before falling under the covers of his bed and into a deep slumber. There was nothing to be done about the telltale bruises that littered his torso, he would just have to hope that his mother would be sufficiently distracted about the upcoming betrothal niceties not to notice them before he dressed. Tomorrow, or rather, he amended, one eye on the dawning glow that lit the window, today, would be an ordeal. First, he had to get through an insult battle with the enchantress’s brother, and then there would be some sort of procession, with an exchange of gifts, followed by a feast. If he was successful in his suit, he and his bride-to-be would be faced with a ritual challenge that showed they were worthy of each other, and would have to bathe before dawn and present the results of their successful quests. And then they would be married.

And that would be where the real challenge would start.

He groaned out loud. Although he knew that this marriage was his duty as a dragontamer and the son of the Queen, he couldn’t help wishing that he could summon Kilgharrah and be taken far away from here. For the night he’d just had, which he had hoped would put all the treacherous feelings about men in general, and strong-thighed rough-jawed blonds in particular, out of his head, had only achieved precisely the opposite.

His mother turned in her sleep, so that Merlin could make out the delicate bones of her face in the grey light that filtered in through the window. She looked so young, when she was sleeping, as if she had shed all the burden of care that was laid upon her as the leader of the dragontamers of Ealdor. He hated himself for not wanting what his clan so desperately needed him to do. Swallowing, he resolved to put his desires behind him. It was not as if he would be the first man ever to have to do so, nor the last. But it was so hard, with the delicious ache of Arthur’s strong fingers still etched into his hips and the ghost of Arthur’s seed still warm on his thighs.

“I won’t let you down, Mother,” he whispered, to reassure himself as much as anything else. “I swear it on the dragontamer crown that I will wear with pride tomorrow.” Thus resolved, he closed his eyes tight, and willed for sleep to come.

 

 

 

 

 

The _flyting_ , or insult battle, was in many ways the climax of the betrothal petitions, and the most popular with the people. After all, a good battle was always great entertainment, and in a _flyting_ the injuries were normally minimal. Well, the physical injuries, anyway.

The day dawned fair, with a crisp bite to the air. Camelot's bird population sang raucously to greet the rising sun, which beamed down on the busy townsfolk making last-minute preparations for the festival. No-one could possibly have predicted the horror that would mark its end.

Even without the unplanned chaos that would ensue, today’s _flyting_ would have been exciting enough to draw the biggest crowd that Camelot had seen at Ostara for some years. The prince of Camelot himself would be one of the contenders, and rumours had been flying round Camelot that another prince, a dragontamer no less, would also be taking part. And with a potential betrothal to the Lady Morgana and Mastersmith Guinevere Leodegrance up for grabs, the stakes were high indeed.

That the prince and the dragontamer had already become intimately acquainted was a surprise even to them.

In a plain-looking tent, behind the stands, Prince Arthur of Camelot, Queen’s Knight, contender for Guinevere’s hand, and proud winner of Camelot’s tourneys for the past five years in a row, was uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

“You might have mentioned something!” he said at last, hands on hips.

“Me? I’m not the one who’s going round seducing visiting petitioners!” The slender man who was pacing in front of him, ruffling inky locks with an agitated hand, stopped and turned, eyes flashing a curious shade of blue and gold. “How was I to know that you’re the brother of the woman I’m supposed to marry? I just wanted one night. One glorious, carefree night! With someone I fancy rotten. And there you were, a handsome, available prat with a massive ego and a huge… And now… My mother will kill me. The peace treaty will be in tatters. And does Camelot have rules about despoiling princes? Because I quite like my head where it is, thank you very much.”

The way that Merlin’s colour rose as he spoke highlighted his bone structure, the bold set to his gaze. Arthur’s fingers itched to touch him, no, wait, not just his fingers, his whole body, his entire being ached with the sudden urge to fling Merlin to the floor and ravish him right there on the trampled straw that floored the tent. For a moment or two he tuned out Merlin’s words, and allowed his eyes the luxury of drinking in the slim strength of Merlin’s frame as he ranted. But then something caught his attention.

“Wait.” Arthur held up a hand and smirked. “You fancy me rotten?”

“That’s what you took from that?” Merlin paused to draw breath, no doubt to launch into another lengthy rant. “I’d have thought that was obvious from the way I…nnng.”

For Arthur had given in to his desire and cut Merlin’s speech short by grabbing hold of him and fastening their mouths together, still bruised and swollen from the previous night. Revelling in the deep moan that he drew from Merlin with this act, Arthur lost himself for a moment or two in the heat of their kiss.  

“There,” he murmured, breaking the kiss for a moment to pushing their foreheads together and brush a gentle hand across Merlin’s cheekbones. “It’ll be all right. I’ll talk to Morgana. The Goddess has sent us to each other. All right?”

“Almost like destiny,” whispered Merlin.

“Exactly like destiny!” Arthur smiled, stepping away just as a squire rang a bell outside the tent, signalling that it was their turn to face the waiting crowds. “Now, you might want to think boring thoughts for a minute or two before someone notices that.” Raising his eyebrows, he nodded and flicked his eyes down towards the rather obvious tent in Merlin’s breeches.

“Prat,” said Merlin without heat, rummaging around with both hands to reassemble himself. “I’ll have you for that, later.”

“Promises, promises,” purred Arthur, licking his lips as he watched Merlin through lowered lashes.

 

 

 

 

It was approaching noon by the time the climax of the _flyting_ was upon them, and certain elements of the crowd had been draining flagons of ale, mead, and other forbidden contraband for several hours by now. As a consequence, they were well-oiled and boisterous, and heckled Sir Elyan and Sir Gwaine, the penultimate contenders, so enthusiastically that some of the more obscure insults were drowned out altogether.

In the centre of the crowd, with a close vantage across the arena, sat Queen Ygraine herself, flanked by her consorts Prince Uther and Prince Gorlois. They and the other gentry were surrounded by eagle-eyed guards in chainmail, halberds glinting in the bright spring sun. The common folk, however, took pot-luck among the hawkers, snack-sellers, book-makers, snake-oil sellers, pilferers, pickpockets and beggars who mingled among them, trading bets, insults and light-fingered touches without blinking.  

“…Ill-kempt, scrofulous weasel,” Sir Elyan was saying, hands on hips, a smirk playing around his lips.

“Ooh!” said the crowd.

“Those are big words,” said Sir Gwaine, turning to the crowd and delivering the next line at a shout. “Do you even know what they mean?” Doubling over in mirth at his own words, he punched the air in triumph amid deafening cheers and a shower of daffodils, thrown as accolades by his many admirers. Bowing comically, he blew outrageous kisses to all the ladies amid the rain of yellow petals. Gwaine’s was a fairly lame retort, lacking the polished wit of Sir Elyan, but such was the handsome knight’s popularity that it took some minutes for the tumult to die down, by which time he and Elyan had shaken hands and left the arena to make way for the main entertainment of the day.

When two tall figures, one broad-shouldered and muscular with golden hair like a crown, the other with glossy black hair, and angular, fey features, stepped into the arena from opposite sides, and circled around one another, smirking, sizing up one another’s attributes, an expectant hush fell. Excited whispers broke out here and there, rapidly shushed.

To the right of the Queen, two women conferred in undertones about the relative merits of their suitors.

“Arthur’s very handsome, isn’t he?” said Mastersmith Guinevere. “In a rough, tough sort of way, that is.”

“Humph. Don’t be fooled by him, Gwen, he’s just a brawler.”  Lady Morgana, heir to the throne of Camelot and ward to the Queen herself, unimpressed, conveyed her opinion with another dismissive noise, one that was most unbecoming to a lady, but made Gwen giggle in mock outrage. “All muscle, no wit. The other one, though. Now he is interesting. I heard that he can summon dragons with the power of thought alone.”

“He looks sweet.” Gwen leaned forward a bit to try to get a better view of him. “A bit skinny, though. Mind you, having dragons on hand would help no end in the smithy. And I do like that crown he’s wearing! I wonder how they managed to get the curl of the dragon’s tail to fit so well.”

“You and your jewellery!” Morgana let out a laugh. “Anyway. I can make fire with my hands. We don’t need a dragon, or a  man, for that.”

“Indeed.” Gwen smiled back at her, head tilted on one side, adoration in her eyes. “You’re amazing, Morgana. You have amazing hands. I mean…” she bit her lip, pinking. “Talented. With the magic, I mean. I’m talking about the magic. Obviously.” Her face darkened even more as she floundered. “Not…not… anything else. Just… very clever fingers. Or rather, tongue. Mouth! Your mouth, I mean. Is amazing. For saying spells, obviously! Oh God! You know what I mean!” She clamped her hand over her mouth as if to stop herself from saying anything further.

It would be lying to say that Morgana didn’t find Gwen’s tendency to babble when she was flustered adorable. Or that she didn’t enjoy playing up to Gwen’s reaction. Delighted, she covered her mouth with her hand and leaned forward to deliver her reply into Gwen’s ear.

“We didn’t need a man last night either, did we?” she said.

“Shhh!” Giggling, Gwen shifted in her seat, turning her head this way and that as if to check that no-one had noticed. “My lady!”

“Well, it’s true.” Nudging Gwen with her elbow, Morgana added, “I’m still a little sore, but I think some more of that ointment might sooth the tender area…. I’d love you to apply it for me. You have clever fingers too, Gwen. Craftswoman’s fingers. Dainty and deft. Skilful.”

“Morgana!” Gwen’s explosion of giggles made her curls shake in a most distracting way. “People might hear!”

“No one can hear us, they’re too busy applauding those two show-offs!” Morgana loved it when she could tease Gwen like this, flushing her skin and making her cheeks dimple.

But then they were being shushed by the Queen herself, and they settled back to enjoy the flyting. There would be time enough for more delicious teasing later.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The Queen’s voice carried easily over the crowd, amplified no doubt by some trick of her adopted daughter Morgause of Tintagel, who was hovering protectively behind Ygraine with her consort Cenred at her side. “Men are all very fine when it comes to flexing their muscles and showing off their… swordplay.”

Laughter and catcalls greeted her coy delivery of this statement.

“But what say you we see whether their wits can match their prowess with their weapons?”

“Aye,” shouted the crowd, a great roar that echoed around the battlements.

“I cannot hear you! What say you?” Queen Ygraine raised her hands, so that the rings on her fingers flashed and the sun fell in a blinding flash of gold upon her hair.

“AYE!” Yelled the crowd, throats lusty and lubricated with mead.

“Then let the final _flyting_ begin!”

With a flourish, the Queen dropped her hands and at her signal the heralds drummed out a deafening roll. The two men stepped up onto the dais, facing each other.

“So, Merlin,” drawled Prince Arthur into the sudden silence. “When I heard I was facing a dragontamer today, I wasn’t expecting one to have fashioned a nest for baby dragons upon his head!” He gestured towards the sorcerer’s unruly black mop of hair. “I keep expecting eggs to fall out.”

A loud cheer rang out around the crowd, and Gwen clapped enthusiastically at her champion. Arthur smirked, waiting for Merlin to respond.

When he spoke, the sorcerer had a fine voice, with a hint of a country accent that Morgana could not quite identify.

“It’s a shame the prince’s wits are less sharp than his sword,” he said, with a smirk. “The only thing softer than his brain is his arse. And the only thing bigger than his arse is his inflated self-importance!”

 

 

 

 

 

A sharp “ooh” from the assembly greeted this plum statement. From where she was sitting, Morgana could see Sir Gwaine trading pieces of paper with the other knights, and she rolled her eyes.

“Very good.” Arthur was nodding in acknowledgment of a blow well struck. “But tell me, Merlin:

_Why do you have bandy legs?_

_Is it from laying dragon eggs?_

_Then, do you have to sit on them?_

_Like a scrawny mother hen?”_

A ripple of applause broke out, and enthusiastic whoops from the part of the stands where the younger girls of the court were sitting. Arthur turned to them, describing circles with his arms to make them yell louder.

“Come on, Arthur!” cried one of them.

“Come on Merlin!” shouted another voice, from the opposite end of the stands.

The crowd erupted in hoots and wolf whistles then, and the Queen stood up, silencing them with a wave of her hand.

Grinning, Merlin turned to Arthur, and said:

_“Arthur is a little dim_

_It’s really quite absurd_

_When told he was a giant cock_

_He thought they meant a bird!”_

Tumultuous applause greeted this bawdy statement.

“Frejya preserve us,” breathed the dragontamer’s mother, from her seat behind Morgana. “He’s gone off script.”

“I like him,” said Morgana to no-one in particular.

Gwen nudged her hard in the ribs, but she didn’t mind.

But Arthur was still smiling, which suggested that he had some choice words up his sleeve. Pausing for a moment to hail Merlin with a slow hand clap, he then raised one finger, turning to each stand one by one, to calm the yells from the rowdier elements among them. Eventually the louder shouts subsided to an expectant murmur, and he spoke up to make himself heard.

 _“Merlin’s breeches are so thin,”_ he said, with a leer,

_“The fabric is so rotten_

_That I can count each one of_

_The pimples on his bony bottom”_

“Oh touche!” cried Gwen, applauding madly. Putting two fingers to her mouth, she let out a most unladylike wolf-whistle that cut through the crowd’s applause. Arthur turned to salute her.

This time it was Merlin’s turn to hold up a hand to acknowledge the hit. But he was still smiling when he spoke, edging closer to Arthur so that they were practically nose to nose.

“You,” he said, poking Arthur in the chest, “are a pompous, privileged, prat of a prince with a pickle in your pants and pimples on your proboscis.”

At this, Morgana couldn’t help leaping to her feet.

“Bravo!” She yelled, plucking the flower from behind her ear and tossing it to Merlin, who caught it and bowed with a flourish.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, a dimple appearing just below one corner of his mouth as he straightened up.

“I like him,” she said again to Gwen. “Did I mention that?”

“You might have mentioned it.” Gwen rolled her eyes, her lips turning down a little. “A couple of times.” She looked sad, all of a sudden, and Morgana opened her mouth to ask her what was wrong, but Arthur was already with his riposte.

“Whereas you, Merlin,” he said exaggerated emphasis on the first syllable, of Merlin’s name “are a bony-bummed bumpkin from Bumfuck with a beetroot up your bottom and boils on your back!”

“Ooh, jolly good.” Gwen’s frown vanished, and she leaped up and down, clapping. “Bravo, Arthur!”

Meanwhile, Merlin’s face had twisted into a pained expression that morphed into helpless laughter and he doubled over.

“Beetroot?” He said, between sobs. “Oh, by the Goddess, my eyes!”

By this time, Arthur, too, had thrown his head back and was laughing uproariously, clinging on to Merlin as if for dear life.

“Pickle,” he was saying. “Proboscis! Oh, Gods!”

The mirth must have been infectious, because Morgana couldn’t help joining in – especially when she turned to see the stony expression on Dragontamer Hunith’s face.

It was difficult to hear anything else of the battle over the tumult of the crowd. At least, that was, until Queen Ygraine herself rose to her feet, and clapped her hands together once in a sharp report that brought everyone to a sudden expectant silence.

“My lords, dragontamers, assembled commoners, ladies and gentlemen,” said Queen Ygraine, smiling, one hand on her consort Uther’s arm. “Has the Dragontamer Merlin Wyllt demonstrated that his has wits enough to earn the right to woo our Lady Morgana? What do you say, Morgana?”

“Aye!” She said, firmly, to rapturous acclaim from the stands.   

“And as for the Mastersmith Guinevere, has Prince Arthur won the right to woo her? Guinevere, do you give him permission to ask for your hand?”

“I do!” said Gwen, her eyes bright with joy and admiration.

The crowd’s whooping was so loud that it sent a huge flock of startled starlings hurtling into the air, and they swooped and curled together in a great cloud that changed shape, now a dragon, now a stylised crown. It should have been a joyous occasion. So why was it that Morgana could feel her throat close and her chest tighten when Arthur came across to kneel at Guinevere’s feet and, smiling, plant a kiss on her palm?

Tamping down the sudden wave of resentment, she accepted the deep bow that Merlin gave her with a curtsey and a coy smile. Tonight, after the feasting had ended, Queen Ygraine would challenge each of the betrothed to a private quest, a mere formality, and then, on the morrow, she would be wed. And that would be that.

It was her duty, and her obligation to the family who had raised her, and she knew it. Merlin seemed like a quick-witted fellow, handsome enough, with the rare ability to make her brother laugh. Maybe marriage to one such as him would not be so bad, after all. Fighting sudden tears, she turned with as much grace as she could muster, expecting to flee.

Distracted as she was, she hardly noticed at first the growing commotion stirring in a far corner of the stands. But the din grew and grew until even she could not ignore it. Someone screamed, a piercing shriek of such pure dread that Morgana couldn’t help spinning round to check what had happened, and there she stopped, heart thudding, pinned into place by some unseen force.

Far across the stadium stood a shabby grey figure woman, hand outstretched towards Morgana, blue tendrils of power spanning the distance between them. The woman looked oddly familiar. She was clad in rags, hair cascading in filthy whirls across her face. But it was her eyes, which glowed an odd shade of gold, that commanded Morgana’s attention.

The woman was still screaming, an unearthly screech with barely recognisable syllables behind it. It took a moment to register that it was Morgana’s name that she was calling out.

“Lady Morgana!” A growing space opened up around the woman her as people scrambled to get away from her. “Lady Morgana! You are mine!”

 "No!" The Queen's voice rang out. "How dare you! She refused you! You must stop hounding her!" 

 

 

 

 

 

Finally, Morgana put a name to the face. Nimueh! The witch she had escaped from years ago had returned, and she seemed if anything even powerful and terrifying than ever.

Fear and dread surged through her. Paralysed, she  opened her mouth to yell for help but no sound came out. Dimly, she registered the mixed shouts and screams of the gentry who surrounded her. People pushed past her in their haste to escape, but she remained frozen in place. A terrible flash blinded her. Dazzled, she tried to lift a hand to protect her eyes.

But it would not move. She was trapped. She couldn't breathe.

Terror struck her. If she had not been locked in place by some terrible spell, she would have sunk to the floor. She sent a silent prayer to the Goddess. Staring full into the face of her attacker, she lifted her chin, even as her limbs weakened.

“No!” Yelled a familiar voice, nearby. “You shall not have her, witch, by force nor otherwise!”

Merlin!

A warm hand grabbed her elbow. Her vision split into millions of blue splinters, as if a shield of ice had been thrown up before her. Suddenly she could no longer see the woman’s eyes, only the memory of them burned onto her retina. Free to move, she overbalanced backwards. Waiting arms gently lowered her to the bench.

“Capture the witch!” Yelled another voice. Uther. A racket of thundering boots and chainmail hinted that the chase was on.

“What?” Looking up into a kindly, concerned face, Morgana tried to speak. “Wha—?” but her voice was cracked and she broke into a heavy bout of terrified coughing.

“Don’t try to speak, my lady,” said Merlin, his eyes still glowing golden with flecks of blue. “You are safe now. My shield will protect us all for now, and the witch has fled. Prince Arthur and the knights of Camelot will not let her get away, I am sure. The Lady Morgause is protecting the Queen and my mother. I fear that the panic among the crowd has caused more trouble than the witch.”  

With shock, Morgana realised, that as Merlin stood in front of her, the trembling hands at her back and her waist must belong to Gwen. And it was that, as much as anything else– the thought that the witch, whoever she was, had endangered Gwen – that made Morgana’s throat close in fury, and made her limbs start to shake.

As the crown princess of Camelot, she was aware of the plots against her. And she knew that Nimueh had become more dangerous and powerful with time.  But dear Gwen, with her charming dimples, her skilful fingers and her sweet, clever nature – how dare Nimueh threaten her!

“I want her captured,” she said, in a low, venomous voice. “And I want to deal with her myself.”

“It shall be as you say, my lady,” said Merlin, eyes still trained on the wards he had erected.

“I like him,” she said softly to Gwen.

“I know, my lady,” said Gwen, her voice quiet in Morgana’s ear as she sighed. “And I’m beginning to see why.”

 

 

 

 

 

A defiant party strode into the Great Hall at Camelot that night. The walls were proudly decked in garlands of daffodils. Rich tapestries glowed a warm gold-red in the torchlight. The assembled courtiers, resplendent in their finest cloth, parted to let the visitors through into their midst, and if there were twice the normal number of guards that closed in behind them, facing the doors and windows, then no-one was complaining. Earlier events had left them shaken up and bruised, quite literally in some cases, casualties of the stampede to exit the stands.

By virtue of status, the dragontamer, legendary Lady Hunith, led the procession, clad in the traditional black Ealdorian leather armour, which was decorated with golden embroidered dragon motifs and fine metalwork. Her son, to one side, and slightly behind, as protocol required, was similarly clad, with a dragon circlet upon his head to declare his status as a petitioner. Behind them trailed a group of nervous-looking lads, groomed to within an inch of their lives, each a clutching box or a gaily wrapped parcel, gifts for their intended. Some of them were led by their mothers, others walked alone, eyes round and large as they gawped at the splendid wall hangings and gaudily clad people of court. One or two, catching a glimpse of their betrothed, relaxed minutely and smiled. Others kept stern, intent expressions on their faces.

Prince Arthur stood behind Lady Hunith’s other side, his expression carefully neutral, cheekbones hollow and regal in the flickering light from the torches that dotted the hall.

Once the assembly was complete and the great doors clanged closed, Queen Ygraine rose to her feet, and the murmur of the crowd dimmed. The rustle of everyone’s clothes as they knelt before her, necks bared, was like a great sigh.

"Behold! The Queen!" announced a herald. 

“My Ladies, Lords, petitioners and all,” proclaimed the Queen. “Welcome to Camelot. May your paths be peaceful and your hearts be true. I will hear your petitions, and then let us feast to celebrate the coming of the spring together. Happy Ostara!”

 

 

 

 

 

“Happy Ostara!” yelled the crowd in response, rising to their feet, full-throated and eager.

Smiling, she sat back down on the throne, and gestured to the empty chair to one side.

“Lady Hunith,” she said, her voice carrying clearly over the din. “Come, I would converse with you. Will you not sit beside me?”

“Willingly, Your Majesty!” replied Hunith, her chin lifting as she spoke. With swift strides, she ascended the small step up to the dais, and turned to settle into the seat by Ygraine’s side. “Ygraine, darling,” she added, in a private undertone. “Have they captured her yet?”

“Hunith, dear,” said the Queen, in a voice like honey that didn't fool Hunith in the slightest. “You look fantastic, I have to say. No, the first patrols returned without her. She vanished into the woods. You know who it is, don't you?”

“I can guess,” said Hunith. She sighed heavily, shaking her head. “I should have known that Nimueh would want to stir up mischief at any hint that Morgana might be betrothed.”

“She’s calling herself The Queen of the Underworld, now.” Ygraine snorted, speaking behind her hand. “She never got over Morgana’s rejection. But Morgause has doubled the wards on the citadel. She assures me we are safe now.”

“What you need, dear Ygraine, is a clutch of dragons to sniff out dark magic,” murmured Hunith, raising her fan to disguise the movement of her lips. “And a dragontamer in the family to patrol your borders.”

“Indeed.” Ygraine sighed, and leaned to speak into Hunith’s ear. “And tell me. How fares that dragon clutch you have been raising for me? And is that little Merlin? My, he’s grown into his looks! Is it true what the druids say of his powers?”

“Yes, dear Ygraine.” Hunith sighed. This was the crux of the matter. At eighteen, Merlin really was at an age where he should be leaving Ealdor and forging an alliance by marriage. And he was powerful – magic crackled from his fingertips, and his rapport with the dragons was legendary. “But why the Goddess had seen fit to bestow such powers upon a boy rather than a girl, who might have been able to put them to some use, I really can not fathom.”

“Well.” Ygraine laughed. “The Goddess is fickle, they say, and her plan is hidden from us. Your boy protected my daughter, today, and I am grateful. Perhaps that is the role that he was destined to perform? And perhaps, together, he and Lady Morgana will create a formidable daughter of Albion. Who can say?”

The Lady Morgana did look like a suitable match for him. She was a powerful seer and, by all accounts, had the strength of character needed to keep Hunith’s headstrong son out of trouble. Plus, any daughters that he might manage to sire would inherit Camelot. Not a bad outcome, for such a slugabed, Hunith thought fondly, eyes straying to a stray lock of Merlin’s hair that had escaped her most urgent ministrations earlier. Not that he’d ever shown any inclination to flirt with any woman. She tamped down her own misgivings and turned back to Ygraine.

“Indeed. And the Lady Morgana is stunning,” she replied. “I am delighted to see her looking so well. Tell me, have her nightmares stopped bothering her?”

“Of course,” said Ygraine, although her mouth thinned and her fingernails tapped on the arm of the throne. “Morgause has been helping her.”

“I’m so glad.” Hunith felt a faint worry tug at her. Ygraine was hiding something, that was clear. When Morgana had been younger, she used to shriek and pale at just the mention of dragons. How would she fare in Ealdor? Was that what bothered Ygraine? Or was it something else? “Dragons are our kin, and I would hate her to feel uncomfortable with her new companions.”

“She will be fine,” said Ygraine. But a faint frownline appeared between her eyes when they drifted over to where Morgana stood. “She assures me that she is quite sanguine.”

“Well, she’ll have her work cut out with this one,” said Hunith,. “Why, only this morning, he was impossible to rouse.” Anyone would think he’d been out all night, from the way that he was yawning now, slumped towards Prince Arthur. She frowned at him, and mouthed “stand up straight”, which he did. At least, after Arthur nudged him with a helpful elbow. But not before rolling his eyes mutinously. Oh yes, poor Morgana would have her hands full, for sure.

“But tell me, how fares Prince Arthur?”

“He’s a good boy.” Ygraine sighed. “Even if he is more interested in the tourney and the boxing ring than civilised court. But the good news is that Gwen Leodegrance has agreed to be betrothed to him. She’s a sweet girl, and a talented craftswoman. Lady Morgana adores her. And uncommonly smart, too. She babbles to hide it, but she has a shrewd intellect. Which is all very good, for Arthur is somewhat impulsive.”

“He does look very… strong,” said Hunith, casting about for something nice to say. “Sturdy. Healthy bones.” The boy was fidgeting, pulling at his clothes, scowling and uncomfortable under her scrutiny. Poor Ygraine must have been quite at her wits end finding a suitable match. The mastersmith would be a great catch for him, Hunith had heard wonderful things about the delicate ensorcelled jewellery that Mastersmith Guinevere had fashioned from Welsh gold.

“It’s all right. You don’t have to stand on ceremony. We’ve done our best with him, poor Arthur, always more at home on horseback than at a banquet.” Ygraine settled primly back into her throne, picking at a thread on her embroidered silk gown. “But I’m fond of the boy. Hopefully the mastersmith can civilise him.”

“She sounds like a sensible girl.” Hunith gazed out over the petitioners, who were assembling into a line, with Merlin at their head, a long box clutched in his hand. “Everything’s fine back in Ealdor for now. I’ve left Lady Freya in charge, and with her guidance Balinor can handle any incursions.”

“That’s good. We must chat over dinner. But for now, we have business to attend to.” Sighing, Ygraine signalled with a wave of one hand to the heralds, who started up a piercing fanfare.

“Of course,” Hunith shouted over the din, wincing at one slightly-off note. She never had got the hang of human musical instruments, preferring the effortless harmonies and soaring notes of dragonsong. But there were no dragons in Camelot, not yet at least, although she and Ygraine had a plan to change that one day.  

 

 

 

 

 

Merlin was nearly asleep on his feet by the time that his mother had finished her conversation with the Queen, and the heavy sword that he was carrying was dragging his arms down. His arms were burning. Briefly, he considered a surreptitious spell, but after a glance at his mother's disapproving stare he changed his mind.

“Does she always go on like this?” muttered Arthur out of the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah. Drives me potty,” said Merlin between gritted teeth. “It’s all right for you. You’re only carrying a little box. This thing weighs an actual bloody ton.”

“You try telling my mother that.” Arthur snorted. “You’d think I was carrying the soul of my grandfather in here, the way she carried on about it.”

But at last an ear-piercing fanfare rang out across the assembly.

"The dragontamer presents his gift!" intoned a herald.

Merlin found himself being prodded to step forward and present the sword to his intended.

“My lady!” he said, with a deep bow that unfortunately sent his circlet clattering to the ground, much to Morgana's delight, from her peal of laughter. Frowning, he jammed it back on his head with one hand, and offered the sword to her, hilt first, with the other. “There you go!” he added, unceremoniously. “The sword of the Pendragons, forged anew in a dragon’s breath. It’s magic, you know. Cleaves to the wielder and vanquishes enemies and all that, I’ve woven protective magic into it… Pretty good weapon, I reckon.”

“Merlin!” Hissed his mother. “Manners.”

“Er."  What had he done wrong now? "Pretty good weapon I reckon, Your Highness?” Thankfully the Queen did not seem offended by whatever lapse he’d shown.

“Thank you, Merlin,” said Morgana with a hesitant smile. The sword was clearly much too heavy for her to wield, as when she grasped the hilt, she fumbled it, gasping, and the tip fell to the floor with a clang. She shuddered and paled. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she turned her head away, throat working.

Merlin jumped at the noise. How very puzzling. The sword had been heavy, when he brought it in, but not overly so. It was as if it had suddenly acquired a mind of its own. Come to think of it, Kilgharrah had been uttering some obscure riddle or another about coins and destiny when he forged it. Merlin would have to corner the wily old reptile and get some sense out of him next time they spoke.

“A most – ah – practical gift.” Morgana added, voice a little faint. “I… um. Percival, perhaps you could… Erm…” She motioned to an enormous knight with her free hand, and the fellow only grimaced a little bit when he had difficulty moving it without dragging it along the floor.

There was awkward silence for a moment.

“Morgana?” prompted the Queen.

“What? Oh! Right. Erm. Well. Oh noble scion of... of dragontamers. Please accept this from the house of Pendragon in return.” Leaning forward, Morgana proffered a pewter-tipped horn that she’d been keeping hidden beneath her throne. “A horn!” She said triumphantly. “For summoning. Erm. Dra… dragons!”

“Oh! Thank you.” As a dragontamer, he had no need of such things. He could bring Kilgharrah to him with just a thought and a gesture. “Most. Erm. Kind?” He moistened his lips, looking to his mother for guidance.

Frowning, Hunith inclined her head, and waggled a finger at him.

“Oh!” Finally remembering how his mother had schooled him, he bowed deeply as they’d rehearsed, hoping he wouldn’t trip over his feet like he did earlier. “My lady, the house of Ealdor thanks you for this royal gift.” Face feeling hot, he looked up at his mother through his lashes to check whether she was still glaring at him, but she was conferring with the Queen, so he relaxed a little and straightened up again, flashing Morgana a sheepish grin.

“You’re welcome, Merlin,” she said, mouth tilting up to one side in return.

The necklace in the shape of the Pendragon crest that Arthur presented to Lady Guinevere had seemed exquisite to Merlin’s eyes when he’d seen it earlier. She opened the box with a smile, but when she withdrew it, rather than the rich Pendragon gold that Merlin was expecting, the pendant seemed a dull, leaden grey in colour, as if it had become tarnished in a few short minutes. And its sapphire eye had winked shut. How very odd.

The Lady Guinevere had also created jewellery to bestow upon Arthur, and the quality of the identical rings she presented to him was evident from the way that the courtiers gasped as she opened the velvet-lined box. The rings were on identical golden chains, the links delicately wrought and of the finest craftsmanship. Merlin could smell the skilled enchantments that spilled out of the box as she passed it shyly to Arthur.

Arthur accepted it with a deep bow in thanks. But unfortunately, no matter how hard he tried, neither ring would fit onto any of Arthur’s fingers. Instead, he slipped both chains around his neck, so that the rings clinked against his gorget.

“Thank you, my lady.” He bowed low. “These are exquisite and I will wear them with pride.”

“I’m so sorry!” Gwen looked as if she might cry. “They are invisibility rings. They will protect the wearer from all harm! I can’t believe that they don’t fit! I was so careful, I…”

“If I might speak?” An elderly woman at Uther’s elbow stepped forwards. She was clad in the plain blue robes of the Midwife's Guild, with a circlet upon her brow denoting high rank. She lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

"Go ahead, Alice," said the Queen.

"The Usher of Souls Speaks!" proclaimed the herald.

“Don’t be sad, my lady," said Alice. "The Goddess is fickle when bestowing magical objects, and has a habit of interfering in the affairs of mortals for reasons of her own in such exchanges. Perhaps she awaits for some predestined condition to be met before these gifts, all extraordinary in some way, finally take their intended form? Indeed, in antiquity, there are those who said that, as the land chooses its ruler, so such objects tend to choose their owners.”

“Thank you, Alice, your words are wise as always.” said Queen Ygraine, dismissing her with a smile and a wave of her hand. “Dear friends. We thank you all for your gifts, and let the exchange be a symbol of the goodwill that exists between all our families. And now, let the feasting begin.”

But Mastersmith Guinevere still looked upset, as Lady Morgana placed a comforting arm around her shoulders.

 

 

 

 

 

“What did you do to get away this time?” Arthur didn’t think he would ever tire of this feeling, the warmth of Merlin’s naked limbs tangled around his, the supple play of taut muscles beneath his splayed fingers as Merlin shrugged.

“A simple enough spell,” Merlin replied, smiling so that a dimple appeared beneath his lip.

Fascinated, Arthur brushed at it with his lips and tongue, but it disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. He gave it a disappointed frown, and then let his mouth travel across Merlin’s jaw to suck another deep bruise onto his throat, poking at it with his finger until satisfied that he’d left his mark.

“Mother had partaken of the mead, anyway,” Merlin carried on. “So she will sleep heavily without waking until dawn. She won’t suspect a thing. And now that I know where you are sleeping… Your guards will be fine by tomorrow, I promise. And I turned back time a couple of hours, not enough so as anyone would notice.” Shifting his weight slightly, Merlin turned onto his side, so that he was leaning on one elbow to gaze down at Arthur’s face, heavy-lidded eyes inviting Arthur to nuzzle and lick at the hollows around his collarbones, to suck dark marks against them, staking his claim. 

“I’m glad you have these talents,” said Arthur, eyes raking Merlin’s lean frame. He let out an appreciative growl that betrayed the deep pool of want that was gathering in his gut, making his spent cock twitch and leak a drop of fluid onto his exposed belly. “Hussy.”

“Well, well. Again? So soon?” Peering at him slyly through a fan of sooty, half-closed lashes, Merlin licked his lips. “My, we are greedy tonight.”

“Always,” said Arthur, throat hoarse and rasping with heavy intent.  

“That’s good.” Merlin’s eyes danced with mischief and reflected starlight. “Because I want to suck you into my mouth again. See how deep I can take your thick cock. Feel it growing hard against my tongue.”

“Goddess.” Arthur moaned, throwing his head back against the downy pillow of his four-poster bed. They probably shouldn’t do this, not here, not even with the host of enchantments that Merlin had cast around the citadel to ensure their privacy, but he could no more stop himself than quell the rising tide or dam a swollen river. This flood would take him, and he was powerless in its path. “Your mouth, Merlin. Your dirty, dirty mouth.” No, Arthur would never tire of this, of the way that Merlin’s whip-tight frame would cradle his, the way Merlin’s wanton lips would spill filthy words into his ear.

He would have to give him up, he knew that. On the morrow, after they had all performed the betrothal rituals, Merlin would be Morgana’s and they would have to stop this. The thought of it made his throat constrict in sudden panic.

“Shh!” said Merlin, as if he was reading Arthur’s thoughts. “It will be all right. You’ll see.”

Swallowing, Arthur prayed to the Goddess that Merlin was right, even as the heat of Merlin’s mouth around his swollen cock made him gasp.

 

 

 

 

 

Elsewhere in the castle, while the cool spring moon cast a benevolent eye upon Camelot’s battlements and gaily fluttering flags, Arthur and Merlin were not the only ones who were nervous about the future.

High upon a tower, in the Lady Morgana’s chambers, a solitary candle flickered, casting its light upon a gaudy velvet bedspread, deep maroon save for a pool of Pendragon-red where the candle-light shone. There she sat, propped up against her pillows, formal robes cast aside in favour of a simple shift that barely covered her thighs. Fine, loose hair cascaded over her shoulders.

Upon her lap, Mastersmith Guinevere sobbed, heartbroken.  

Morgana didn’t really mind having an inconsolable Gwen in her arms. Of course, she felt terrible on Gwen’s behalf, sad that the gift-giving ceremony had gone so disastrously wrong, but at the same time the Gwen’s weight upon her lap felt curiously right.

“There there, pet,” she said, twining a thick lock of Gwen’s hair between her fingers and bringing it to her face to breathe its delicate scent and gentle it with her lips. “It’s not your fault, I know it’s not. The Goddess is playing tricks on us. Besides which, your beautiful craftsmanship is wasted on a brute like Arthur, trust me. Let him wave his pig-sticker at the other louts that clang around the place all grumpy-faced. Honestly, my darling Gwen, please don’t cry. I can’t bear it when you cry. You mean the world to me.”

“My lady!” Gwen’s eyes shone bright with unshed tears that lingered on her lashes. “You mean the world to me, too. You have been so kind to me… And that woman, that witch, I thought I’d lost you!”

“It is no hardship, being kind to you, Gwen.” Morgana cupped Gwen’s cheek with one hand, marvelling at the softness of it. “You are dear to me, Gwen. So very dear.”

“And you to me.” Gwen gulped, and a tear spilled down her cheek as she sobbed. It glowed as bright as any jewel. “I will miss you so, when you are a dragonlady. Will you dwell far away among the dragonfolk?”

"I will. I must dwell with them and learn their ways until I become Queen of Camelot, and who knows when that might be?" Dragons. Morgana winced at the thought, a chill passing over her flesh, raising tiny bumps of dread. She shivered. 

“My lady?” said Gwen, frowning. "What ails you?"

“Dragons,” said Morgana, drawing Gwen in closer to feel her warmth. “I’m… they’re… I dream of them. With their slimy, scaly hides and their cold, sly eyes.” She shivered again. “That horrible sword - I can't explain it but I could _feel_  the dragon's breath upon it." The memory made her shudder. "They’re everywhere in this kingdom, it seems, and now I am doomed to live out my days surrounded by the real thing.”

She had tried, the Goddess only knew how much she had tried to overcome her fears. But when she had tried to hold the hilt of the sword, the odd feel of it against her fingers had made a mocking dragon-face appear before her eyes, and it was that, as much as its weight, that had caused her to drop it in sudden shock.

“Oh, My Lady!” Gwen buried her head in the crook of Morgana’s shoulder, and her hands snaked around Morgana’s waist. “Why does the Goddess punish us? You’ll be up there in that horrible eyrie, without me to comfort you. And I know that Merlin’s probably not too boring, for a man, that is, and he looked after you when that… that… witch attacked you, but… and…and I’ll be stuck here, and I know Arthur is your brother and he’s a very… rough, tough, strong sort of a man, but I have loved being so close to you, why would the Goddess separate us, why? And then that witch tried to ensorcel you, I couldn’t bear it if… I hope they catch her!“

“Prince Uther will capture her, don’t worry, Gwen. And I will see to it that she will regret ever putting you at risk.” Morgana said, with a confidence she did not feel. Anxiety gnawed at her stomach. The witch-woman’s Nimueh’s face, desperate and terrifying, eyes glowing gold, and her wild hair standing on end, grey rags flying out about her like a dark angel’s wings, had haunted her nightmares for years. The events of the day merely confirmed what she already knew. She had a powerful enemy, one that would not merely give up and go away.

“Who is she?” said Gwen, eyes dark and round in the candlelight. “Why did she want to take you? What did she mean?”

“The witch-woman?” Morgana sighed. “Her hame is Nimueh. My mother, Vivienne, and her mother, Niniane, promised us to each other as spouses when we were babies. There is some prophecy, you see, about the land being united by the union of the Pendragons and magic. And my father is Uther Pendragon. Thinking that Nimueh and I… but my mother died, and when Ygraine became my guardian I begged her not to make me marry Nimueh. I dreamed of her, Gwen. Nightmares, most terrifying. Her eyes, the black power from her hands. Blood and fire. So much fire, Gwen! So much blood! You have no idea!”

“My lady!” Gwen cupped her face in one hand, shaking her head in sympathy. “I can’t imagine how awful that must have felt.”

“I couldn’t sleep, for the longest time…” Morgana drew in a shaking breath. “It... it took years for Morgause to help me to sleep. And then… and then…” she bit her lip at the memory, and swallowed. “When I was eight, she came to take me me. Nimueh. Claiming that I was hers, that the promise between our mothers still held. She seemed innocent enough, but something about her terrified me. I refused to go with her. Ygraine banished her, and Morgause flung her away, put wards up all round the citadel. And I am learning to control my visions but today… she has grown in power. Dark magic lingers around her. She has become the creature of my nightmares.  She seeks only to take, to control, and not to nurture.”

“How ever will you manage to fight her off?” said Gwen, lip trembling. “Oh, my lady! I fear for you!”

“It will be all right, Gwen, you will see. She caught me off guard, that’s all,”  lied Morgana. “Merlin is strong. He will defend me. And you… You will be safer, far away from me. I would hate anything to happen to you, on account of me. Arthur has many failings, but he is a strong fighter, and will not allow any harm to happen to you. That gives me comfort.”

“I know Arthur’s an honourable man, Morgana,” Gwen replied. “I know he is, and I know he will care for me, but he’s so big and burly, and the smell of the armour, Goddess, it reeks! And you are so sweet and beautiful, it makes me ache sometimes, and—” her breath hitched, making the dull-grey Pendragon pendant bounce upon the soft rounds of her breasts, encased as they still were in a tightly-tied bodice.

Gwen could carry on like this, Morgana knew it, and normally she would let her, but it distressed her to see Gwen so distraught.

“Hush,” she said instead, cradling Gwen’s head against her own breasts as a rising tide of tenderness made her chest ache. “I will never forget you, Gwen, and who knows what the future might bring?” A wayward curl slipped over Gwen’s face, and with her thumb she slid it behind Gwen’s ear.

“I don’t know what I’ll do without you,” Gwen whispered, sniffing. “I just want to be with you, always. Oh, Goddess! I’ve got snot on your shift.” She dabbed away at the damp spot with ineffectual fingers. “I’m so sorry!”

“Hush, it’s only an old sleep shift,” said Morgana. “Don’t worry about that.” Throat catching, she pressed her lips to the top of Gwen’s head, smoothing Gwen’s trembling arms with her hands. Gwen’s arms were bare, warm to the touch, soft and smooth. She would never tire of stroking Gwen’s bare skin. She longed for it on those dull days when Gwen wasn’t there, but the memory of it was tucked under her fingertips, warm and sultry like a June day, ready to glide across her own stomach and thighs and into her secret spaces when she needed comfort. “We’ll find a way. I promise.”

Her words or her gentle stroking seemed to soothe Gwen, and after a moment or two, the trembling stilled. When Gwen tilted her face up, it was the matter of a moment to lean down and fit their mouths together, soft lip upon soft lip, chaste at first but then with more heat. Tilting her head a little, she parted her lips and probed deeper. Gwen fell back onto the mattress tugging her so that she followed, lips still touching, relishing the slow moan that this drew from Gwen. And they’d done this before, of course they had, but never had they kissed with such urgency or longing, and Morgana wanted never to stop, never to stop kissing Gwen and touching her.

“Wait!” Gwen gasped, pulling away for a moment to fumble with the tight ribbons that bound her bodice. “I’ve got a knot.”

“Poor Gwen,” said Morgana, batting away her hand and frowning at the knot. “Let me help.”

“Stop! It tickles.” Gwen giggled, her chest jiggling.

“Oh, sorry,” said Morgana insincerely. She carried on while Gwen squirmed under her.

Eventually the offending knot was released, and Morgana could nuzzle at the soft furrow between Gwen’s breasts. With deft hands, she pushed up Gwen’s skirts until they cascaded around her upon the bed like a garland of lilac, sliding her fingertips along the firm, smooth flesh inside Gwen’s thighs, slowly, inexorably closer to the hidden source of Gwen’s passion, heart speeding with the thrill of anticipation.

“Can I?” She whispered, hand paused in its journey.

“Yes. Oh, yes. Please,” Gwen’s eyes glistened dark and huge in the flickering candlelight, and parting her legs, moaned out loud so that Morgana’s pulse thrummed in her ears. “Please.” Gwen’s hands scrabbled at the tight bodice, drawing a string that loosened it, tugging it until the material parted.  “Oh, Goddess, that’s better.”

Morgana drew back for a moment to admire the vision this gave her, of Gwen’s hair spread like a fan across the counterpane, Gwen’s splayed limbs, loose and inviting, Gwen’s face, tears drying upon it, a dimple appearing upon her cheek. Gwen’s mouth was slack, her tongue dark pink and shiny, her nipples round and inviting, raised into soft peaks by the cool air.  

A sharp pang of need darted deep into Morgana’s belly, making her breath hitch and her heart thud hard against her ribcage. Leaning forward, she licked Gwen’s nipple, salty and rough against her tongue, marvelling at the way that it peaked. With a moan she encased it fully with her lips, suckling eagerly until it was slick.

“Morgana,” moaned Gwen. “Your mouth. Oh, Goddess. Your mouth!”

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” Switching her attention to Gwen’s other breast, Morgana hooked her fingers into the lace of Gwen’s undergarments and slid them beneath, seeking wet heat, gasping when she found it.

“My lady,” Gwen breathed into her mouth and hips hitched forward in a slow rhythm, sliding her nub back and forth along Morgana’s fingers. “Please!”

“Tell me what you want me to do.” Shaping one hand to mould Gwen’s curves, leaning on the other elbow, she rubbed circles over Gwen's nub, fascinated by Gwen’s expression, dreamy-eyed, focussed and yet far-away. “Do you want me to…?” Morgana’s breath came in heavy gasps, so intense was her desire, her need to make Gwen feel good.

“Just carry on with that,” Gwen gasped, closing her thighs so that Morgana’s hand was trapped.

And Morgana loved this, loved that she could gently work Gwen open until she moaned and writhed beneath her, all worries forgotten. Loved that her fingers could work their way into Gwen’s hollows, and splitting them coax rich, sweet juices from her, sweeter than any fruit, however ripe. Loved to lap at them, greedily, gorging on them until the tempo of Gwen’s tensing limbs quickened, and her moans turned to gasps, and the pulse of her ecstasy fluttered hard against Morgana’s fingers and tongue and lips.

And later, after Gwen had slipped her tongue into the slick mess between Morgana’s thighs and licked her until she cried out, they lay together beneath the covers and whispered about all the things they would like to do together. Gwen’s sweet-salt musk seeped into Morgana’s skin, and breathing it, Morgana was comforted.

For now, at least.

 

 

 

 

 

Frost lay crisp upon the Queenbarrow, the ancient and holy sanctuary of the first Queen of Camelot. Jagged grass blades glinted silver in the moonlight. The thirteen ancient stones of the circle that ringed the barrow stood sentinel, hunched as if bracing themselves against the cold. The entrance to the tomb was a dark gash, framed by two sloping queenstones, topped with a single, large slab to form a crude arch.

Beneath the stars, bright pinpricks in the fabric of the heavens, laboured three knights, the peace punctuated by their grunts and heavy breathing.

Sir Gwaine led the way, carrying the torch. Sir Elyan held the point of the sheathed broadsword, and Sir Percival its pommel. Its weight dragged down on Elyan’s hands as between them, they manoevered towards the low stone entrance to the barrow.

“I’m sure we’re meant to go in that way,” panted Elyan, nodding towards the gap between the two highest stones of the circle, which denoted summer. “I’m sure I heard that somewhere. To show respect for the Goddess.”

“Nah,” said Percival. “Long way round.”

Elyan could understand the truth of Percival’s statement, but couldn’t help wondering as they passed through the lowest stones of the circle, the ones that denoted winter. As if to accentuate his concern, high overhead, a shadow passed across the moon, making his skin pebble despite the warmth of his exertions. The sudden hoot of an owl, seemingly inches away from his face, made him jump, and he almost dropped the sword.

“Something’s watching us,” he said, fearfully glancing about. Years ago an enchantress had once told him that he had been gifted with the Sight, but on nights like these he couldn’t help thinking that it was more of a curse than a gift. “Something doesn’t want us to be here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you superstitious eedjit. It’s just the Queenbarrow!” said Gwaine, nonchalant as you please. “Anyway, I’m the one who’s going in first. Hurry up, you two.”

“Oi, this bloody thing’s heavy,” said Elyan, face puckering with the effort. “Goddess. It’s all right for you, carrying the bleeding torch."

“Your fault for losing the flyting, Els.” Gwaine’s teeth flashed gold in the flickering torchlight as he ducked under the arch. When the torch illuminated the stones they seemed much more innocuous, just lichen-stained and impassive, rather than menacing. “Perce, you’ll have to drop your end. Your bloody shoulders are too big to get through here. You stay out there and keep watch.”

“All right.” Percy obligingly dropped his end, and the pommel fell with a clink onto the large stone on the threshold.

“I’ll have to drag it in backwards,” said Elyan with a grunt, dropping the point and stooping to grab the pommel. He strained at the extra weight, a drop of sweat sliding down his face as he turned to back into the barrow, the tip scraping a pale line through the dirt and dust as he dragged it. “Fuck! It’s bloody heavy!”

“Come on, lazy bugger,” said Gwaine, already inside the passage that led into the barrow. “This is all your fault, Percy. I could have been in the tavern by now if you’d been strong enough to carry that little pig-sticker by yourself.”

“Oi! Pig-sticker yourself. Bloody thing’s enchanted,” Percy’s voice drifted down the passage into the depths of the tomb.

Elyan straightened as he entered the tiny chamber, propping the sword up with its point on the ground. He gazed around at the rough stone walls. Ancient runes and symbols that he could not decipher decorated them. Another wave of dread crashed over him.

“Spooky, huh?” Gwaine lifted the torch, high. Dark shapes scuttled away from the flame, slipping between the stones like shadows fleeing the light. “Nasty place.”

Sudden heat surged through the sword, so that it glowed white from tip to pommel.

“Ow!” Dropping the sword with a curse and a heavy clang, Elyan sucked at his fingers. “Bloody thing burnt me! I don't think this place likes you, either, Gwaine. I don't blame it, to be honest. Why do you have to go insulting the Goddess like that?”

“Weird.” Still holding the torch aloft, Gwaine poked at the still-glowing sword with his toe. “Shit!” A wisp of smoke rose from Gwaine’s jackboot. He hopped about the tomb, flailing at his burning boot with his other foot. The light from the torch guttered and flickered out. Darkness swallowed them.

“You twat!” said Elyan. “We’ve still got to get the bloody thing onto the table. How are we going to do that in the dark?”

“It’s not completely dark, El.” Which was true. The sword’s glow was fading though, and the shadows were returning, inky and malevolent.

But as they watched, the eerily shimmering sword rose into the air, as if guided by an invisible hand. It drifted towards the stone table at the heart of the chamber. If Elyan squinted, he fancied that he could see the faint outline of an ethereal hand, paler than mist, slim and elegant, festooned with rich rings. The hand traced the runes that decorated the blade, which glowed now red, now silver, and then vanished altogether as if swallowed up by the stone of the table.

“Begone!” a voice sounded in his head, and the hand turned towards him. An accusing finger pointed. With that all the light in the tomb winked out. A deep rumbling sound, far beneath them, made the soles of his feet vibrate.

 

 

 

 

 

Elyan swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry.

“Fuck it, let’s go,” said Gwaine, heavy footsteps scuffling towards the tomb entrance.

“Fuck, yeah.” Elyan stooped and turned. He felt around with his fingers  to avoid bumping his head on the roof of the ancient stone passageway. In the end, he scrambled through on trembling hands and knees. His heart thumped as he hastened away from that horrible hand. As they emerged into the welcome starlight, he imagined he heard a faint, metallic sound, steel upon stone. Faint, faraway laughter echoed around the passage, lending speed to his weary feet

“Come on slowcoaches!” he yelled over his shoulder, sprinting away from that haunted place as quickly as he could.

“Dragon magic, or something religious.” Elyan said later from the safety of the tavern, a jar of the landlady’s finest mead clutched in trembling fingers. “Told you so. Best not to mess with it. Goddesses and dragons and that.”

“Yeah, like you know anything about it!” said Gwaine, swigging from his own tankard.

Percival said nothing, but nodded his agreement and buried his nose in his mead.  

 

 

 

 

 

Prince Consort Uther Pendragon paused at the door of his beloved’s bedchamber, dismissing the guards with a wave of his hands. He waited for the steady rhythm of their echoing footsteps on the flags to die away before knocking, quietly, in the pattern that he and Ygraine had established over the years.

She opened the door herself, beckoning him into the chamber. Her maid had dressed her for bed, and her golden hair tumbled in rich cascades across her shoulders, finer than any woven silk. Taking a lock with gentle fingers, Uther pressed it to his lips, inhaling the rich fragrance, lavender and honeysuckle, that reminded him of homecoming.  

“My lady,” he said formally, kneeling and wincing only slightly at the impact of his knees upon the cold, hard stone floor.

“My prince,” she replied, with a smile in her voice. “Come, rise and tell me, what news of the fugitive?”

Uther sighed in reply, getting stiffly to his feet, and crossing the room with long strides to the desk. He stared down at the piles of hastily scribbled messages to the leaders of the land: one to Queen Annis in Caerleon, Lady Elena in Cornwall; Princess Mithian, Regent in Nemeth.  

“I see,” she said, smile fading.

“I am sorry, my love.” Uther shook his head and sank onto the chair, slowly to spare his aching muscles. “What hope have mere mortals such as us in seeking one with such power? It was like chasing a rainbow. We tracked her to the forest of Essetir, but the trees of the dimwood misled us at every turn. We lost her trail, and as we rode back the heavens echoed with her laughter. She was scrying, I suppose, watching our every move. Give me a foe with a weapon and armour, Ygraine. Finding enchantresses is beyond my skill.”

“Poor boo-boo,” she said, planting a kiss to his forehead. “Do not fear. Morgause is protecting the citadel, and Morgana’s skill in divining is developing fast. Soon even Nimueh will hold no fear for us, any more. Hunith thinks that her son and Morgana together will create a new magic, one with the power to unite Albion against Nimueh’s threat.”

“Hmm,” grunted Uther. “I hope for all our sakes, but especially for Morgana’s, that she is right.” He beckoned to Ygraine, who sat upon his knee, lacing her fingers with his.

“You are hurt.” She lifted his sore knuckles, kissing them one by one.

“It is nothing. A mere scuffle with some bandits. Prince Arthur dispatched them quickly.” He couldn’t help a note of pride creeping into his voice. Arthur had turned into a fine man, a warrior unmatched upon the field. He would serve Camelot well, like his father.

“Come.” Standing, she tugged at his hands, pulling him across to the bed. “Our daughter will be wed tomorrow. And our son. Let us be thankful, tonight.”

“Who am I to naysay the Queen of Camelot?” he smiled, wearily, and followed.

 

 

 

 

 

The citadel of Camelot was ancient, protected by many hidden wards that had been laid down and forgotten in layers over the years. But as with any armour, there were always chinks. Through one such crack the wraith glided, silent, not so much grey, more a leaching of light, that swirled as it slid over bare flagstones.

It paused outside one door, as if listening.

“I will miss you, my lady…” said a tremulous voice.

“Hush, Gwen”. At the sound of this second voice, the wraith’s form trembled, like the surface of a pond disturbed by the scuttle of a water-boatman. It flattened itself upon the door, but the voices faded and the wraith’s passage was blocked by a strong barrier that flung it back into the wall on the opposite side of the corridor. The torchlight flickered and went out.

Away it drifted again, seeking some crack by which it might gain entry, halting at last outside the Prince’s chambers. A ghostly hand slid over the doorknob in a circular motion, but the knob did not turn. Thus thwarted, the figure probed at the keyhole, and paused, for once again voices could be heard through it.

“Did you hear something?” Dragontamer Merlin Wyllt awoke with a start, gazing fearfully about, his eyes glowing blue and gold by a stray mote of moonlight.

“What is it?” muttered his companion, Prince Arthur, encircling Merlin’s waist with a protective hand.

“I had a funny feeling. Didn’t you feel it?”

“Shut up, Merlin. Go to sleep.” The prince yawned and buried his face in his pillow.

But Merlin turned towards the door, eyes glowing in the gloom, thrusting his hand out with a simple, spoken command. A sudden breeze blew past, though the window was closed, an unearthly screech sounded through the citadel, and with that the wraith dissolved into shreds and vanished.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Deep within the sanctuary of her cave, Nimueh blinked at her scrying bowl, once clear, but now suddenly clouded with sediment. Both hands still clutched the bowl as she waited for the spring-water to clear it, but the light in it winked out, and the cave grew dim and shadowy.

“You again! ” Nimueh hissed, full lips thinning into a spiteful moue. Her breath raising bumps on the surface of the water. “I’ll get you for that, dragontamer!” Her shoulders heaved, and she drew in a deep breath. “Still.” Her lip curled in disdain. “I wonder if oh-so-clever Ygraine and her pathetic sidekick know that their precious son has taken a dragontamer to bed. Ha! But, Lady Morgana.” She released her hold on the bowl and stepped away, gazing blindly into the darkness. “The mastersmith has enchanted her, there can be no other explanation.”

With a wave of her hand, she conjured up a glowing orb that sent the shadows spinning off into crevices. At another command, a group of bats, gathered together and flew down from the ceiling of the cave in a dense cloud that parted to flow round her like a river of ink.

“Come, my pretties!” She shrieked at the cloud, her breath misting the air, silver by the light of the moon. “Neither mastersmith nor dragontamer shall have Morgana. She will be mine as I was promised!” With another wave of her hand, she muttered a hasty incantation and shrank down to the size of a bat herself, and with a flit of her wings she followed.

 

 

 

 

 

As dawn paled the horizon, the lonely eastern star gazed down upon the slumbering lovers of Camelot, as hopeful and bright as the dawn itself. But high above it, Mars’s baleful red eye glowered at the same scene, distant and jealous like nemesis.

The procession that approached the Queenbarrow just before dawn paused between the two lowest stones, and knelt, to request permission to enter. Lady Morgana headed the group, clad in ceremonial green to herald the coming of the spring. A simple crown of linked daffodils decorated her brow. She bowed her head and closed her eyes in supplication.

Behind her, her brother and protector, Prince Arthur, although kneeling, kept a watchful eye open, sensing trouble, although he had no idea where it would come from.

As their would-be spouses, Merlin and Gwen were next in line, followed by the Queen herself, together with her consorts. Their retinue of priestesses, mastercrafters, elders, soldiers, and knights streamed out beyond them to the horizon, heads bowed and knees bent in deference to the Goddess.

The sky was clear, and the frosty ground sent the cold and damp shooting through Arthur’s breeches. And when the sun finally peeped above the horizon, its first rays pierced the Queenbarrow’s opening for the first time that year. Ostara was upon them, and spring was here.  And at last, thanks to the slow inexorable rise of the sun, Mars itself faded away, doomed by the sun’s brilliance to remain hidden until such a time as night might fall again.

When the crowd sighed, it was as if the earth herself moaned. They made the sign of the Goddess with their hands upon their breasts.

Prince Arthur remained still, despite the dull muscle ache and sharper jabs on his skin, reminders of the night that he had just had with Merlin. Merlin, who knelt just behind him, so close that if Arthur reached out he could touch. But that was forbidden now.

In the depth of the night they had spoken of duty, duty to the land and to their families, and vowed that they would not succumb again to the powerful forces that drew them together as the sea is drawn to the shore. But it was hard for Arthur, hard to ignore the pull of desire, hard with the bruises that Merlin’s strong fingers had made still painting his thighs. If Arthur closed his eyes, shutting out the mumbling of the priestesses and the murmur of the people, he could imagine himself back in his chambers, with Merlin’s plush lips slick around him, with the heat of Merlin’s touch on his cock, of Merlin’s seed upon his belly. A powerful wave of longing swept over him. He bit his lip to dam the rising tide of regret.

Instead, he opened his eyes again, focusing on the simple belt that drew Morgana’s skirts together, the empty sheath that she bore for the sword. His sister, Morgana, who was to wed Merlin that day. As Arthur himself was to wed Gwen, a woman he respected and admired.

Arthur’s jaw tightened.

In front of him, Morgana rose to her feet, the base of her gown stained dark from the melted frost, and strode confidently towards the now-glowing entrance to the barrow, where she paused, curtseyed, and ducked in.

“The Goddess permits the lady Morgana to enter the tomb,” intoned High Priestess Morgause. “When she returns, reborn, with the sword of her ancestors, the rites of marriage can begin.”

The peasants, merchants, burghers, nobles, craftsfolk, priests, magicians, apprentices, and soldiers of Camelot cheered as if with one voice.

High overhead, a dense cloud of bats swept across the sky in a tight arc, then surged into the tunnel. Arthur shivered.

Long minutes passed, and Arthur shifted uncomfortably as the cold seeped through his knees and into his bones. But still the Lady Morgana did not emerge.

“Do you think she’s all right?” Merlin’s anxious whisper sounded behind him.

“Of course she is,” Guinevere whispered back. “She’s Morgana.”

But as more long moments went by without her re-emergence, Arthur, too, became concerned.

“You’ll have go to back in and drag her out, at this rate, Els.” muttered Gwaine, over to his right.

“No way. I wouldn’t go in there again if you paid me,” Elyan said. “There’s something in there, I tell you. Something nasty.”

“Hush!” As High Priestess, Morgause was well within her rights to admonish the congregation for chatting. Silence fell again, but whether through anxiety or because of the cold, Arthur’s hackles were rising.

A moment later, an unearthly scream pierced the silence. The bats erupted from the tunnel and scattered.

“Morgana!” Without hesitation, Arthur surged to his feet and hurtled to the tomb entrance, brightly lit now throughout its length by the piercing dawn rays. Ignoring the bats that surged past him, he ducked through, his shadow stark against the brilliant light. Shouts and screams rang out behind him. He blinked. When he looked again, Morgana had slumped to the floor of the chamber, and a shadowy figure stood over her.

Stumbling in his haste to get inside, he fell to his knees and started to crawl through the narrow passage. But as he crawled, the earth shook violently, as if trying to dislodge something, and with a deep rumble, the stones that had guarded the entrance to the Queenbarrow tumbled in his wake, blocking anyone else from getting in or out. The bright sunshine winked out, and he was left coughing at the dust in gloom as black as pitch.

“Arthur!” Merlin’s voice yelled outside.

“Morgana!” Guinevere’s scream was as loud.

But there was no time to respond. The terror in Morgana’s cry still echoed in his ears. Frantically, Arthur carried on through the tunnel, pausing only to pull out his dagger and place the flat of its blade between his teeth for ease of later retrieval.  

“Morgana!” he yelled through bared teeth.as he felt, rather than saw, the tomb open up around him. He scrabbled around where he thought she had fallen, relieved to find the warm silk of her skirts with his hands. “Morgana! Answer me! Are you all right? Morgana!” He shook her limp body, cursing the fact that the scabbard she bore was still empty. “Come on, Morgana!”

“She is fine.” said a cold voice, somewhere over his head. “She is merely sleeping.” Arthur made to leap to his feet. But he found he couldn’t move, no matter how much he strained, as if invisible bonds tethered his arms to his side and a crushing weight pinned his knees to the floor.

“Let me go!” he yelled. His dagger fell from his teeth and he cursed. “Witch! Who are you? Let me go! Mmmf…”

Something clamped tight across his mouth, effectively gagging him. Pulling all his muscles taut, he pushed with all his might against the bonds that held him. But they just tightened around him. Tighter and tighter. Until he was fighting for every breath, and his chest felt hot under his tunic. Sparks erupted behind his eyes with the need to breathe. In his head, he cursed the idiotic custom that demanded he should attend the ceremony without armour.

“Well, this is a pretty pass,” the voice added. “I had thought to take only one Pendragon, but perhaps two will serve my purpose even better.” And with that a blinding light swept through the chamber, sweeping Arthur along with it. A sudden pain erupted behind his eyes, then there was nothing.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Come on, Arthur.” Morgana’s voice jabbed into his head. Pain shot through it in counterpoint. “Wake up! Stop being such a baby.” Her tone now was the same as it had been when he’d been very young, and a terrifying illness had swept through Camelot. Arthur had been in bed for days, the pain in his head so extreme that he could barely lift it from the pillow. Morgana had sat at his bedside and nursed him through it with sharp jibes that made him desperate to get up and tickle her until she begged for mercy.

“Shut up, Morgana,” he said with a groan, slipping easily into the comforting rhythms of a childhood quarrel. “God help Merlin, waking up every day to that voice.”

“It’s a good thing that my hands are tied together, or I’d slap you for that, little brother.”

Something jostled him. Pain flashed behind his eyes until he cried out.

“Stop jiggling, it hurts.” His arms were still pinned and each breath sent sharp jolts shooting through his ribs. Cautiously, he experimented with flexing his limbs, but they were held fast.

“I’m trying to get us out of here,” said Morgana. Rather than diminishing, the jostling merely increased in intensity. “Stop being such a baby.”

“Where are we, anyway?” Groaning, Arthur opened his eyes, but he might as well not have bothered. The darkness was complete. He closed them again, took a great breath, and tried to move his arms, but they still wouldn’t budge. “Are we being held prisoner?”

“Well, give the man a sweetmeat!” hissed Morgana. “Aren’t you the clever one?”

“Bloody stupid captor, then,” said Arthur, “not gagging you.”

“Oh, haha.” Sarcasm dripped from Morgana’s voice.

“What happened.” Arthur gave up fighting against his bonds. “Who was that?” The hissed exchange had warmed him, somehow, and he found himself breathing a little easier.

“I think it was the witch. That bitch, Nimueh! The bitch witch,” said Morgana. “Bitch. BITCH!” she screamed out into the space in which they were being held.

“BITCH-itch-itch-itch-itch!” said the echoes.

“Aaaargh!” yelled Arthur, gauging the distances from the returning sounds. “BASTARD!”

“There’s no need to be so rude.” The witch spoke, somewhere next to his ear, making him flinch.

“You!” said Morgana. “What do you want from us?” Her struggles grew more violent, so that Arthur could feel the muscles of her back straining against his, but to no avail. “Where are you holding us?”

“For shame!” said the witch. “I am Nimueh, Queen of the Underworld. We are in my domain, now.”  

“I know who you are,” said Morgana. “And you’re no Queen. You’re a cow who can’t take no for an answer. The Queenbarrow is the Goddess’s. It is protected! She will never allow you to—”

“Superstitious nonsense,” said the witch. She came closer, so that Arthur could hear her breathing heavily. “How about a kiss for your lover, Morgana?” There was a wet sound. Morgana’s body flinched against Arthur’s.

“How dare you!” cried Morgana. “I said no! You disgust me!”

“Leave my sister alone,” Arthur yelled, impotent and furious. From the echoes of bitter laughter that answered him, he gauged that the chamber must span a good twenty feet in all directions, although the wall would be closer on one side. “She said no and she means no. Besides which, kidnapping will hardly help your suit, witch.”

The heavy blow to his head came out of no-where in the darkness. It made his ears ring,and he gasped, momentarily deafened, but then gradually he pieced together what she was saying.

“Silence, boy!” she shouted. “You are expendable.” With a rustle of skirts, she drew nearer, her foul breath hot on his cheek. “So pathetic,” she whispered. “Take away a man’s sword and it’s like removing his brains.”

Pain bloomed across the other side of his head and this time he cried out as sparks exploded across his vision.

“As for you, my pretty Lady Morgana,” the whispering skirts brushed past Arthur, and footsteps rounded his sister. “Today is to be your wedding day. How lucky for you that I am to be your bride, instead of that fumbling oaf of a dragontamer. You will be my consort, and I will rule over Camelot and the Underworld, as I am destined to do. You were promised to me, Morgana. Your mother promised mine, before we were even born! The Pendragon champion and magic will rule the land together, as the prophecy said. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it!”

“I have seen you,” said Morgana in a low voice, “and nothing that I have seen warms me to you. I will never be yours.”

“Don’t fight it, dear one!” cooed Nimueh in a voice that was honey laced with poison. “You are mine, and you will realise that, as soon as I get you away from the influence of that interfering hag, Ygraine. With your brother as a bargaining chip, too! We can ransom him for a pretty penny. Let’s see what your precious mother thinks of that, mmm?”

“Never, bitch.” Morgana spat, an audible “ptuh”.

Nimueh made a small, disgusted noise.

“You dare to defy me?” she hissed. “You will learn to regret that.”

“I’m not afraid of you!” said Morgana, voice steady. Her back against Arthur’s was as straight as a ramrod. “You are nothing to me. The empty promises of my dead mother mean nothing. We share no destiny together. You are delusional.”

“We’ll see about that.” said Nimueh.

A sharp slap rang out and Morgana slumped back against Arthur with a gasp.  

“I don’t need to marry such a beautiful bride.” Nimueh went on. “You won’t be so pretty after you have been burned, you and your thug of a brother together.”

Silence fell, and while Arthur cast around for something, anything, to help them to escape, he thought for a moment that he could hear a distant sound, shouting and a rumble, far away above their heads.

“You’ll never get away with this,” said Morgana in an urgent hiss. “They will come for us.”

“ _Forbaernan_!” said Nimueh, the word heavy with magic and malevolence. “ _Ligfyr onbærne swiþe._ ”

At her word, a ring of fire erupted around them. Arthur closed his eyes against the sudden bright flame that pierced them. He looked away, blinking as he peered into the darkness. The flickering firelight showed rough-hewn walls, shining damply, and here and there the glint of something that may have been crystalline. They were beneath the Queenbarrow, he guessed, in some sort of a secret cave or mine.

Wincing against the pain in his eyes and around his head, he dragged his gaze beyond the flame to where Nimueh stood, clad in rags that might once have been a bright gown, but were now dark with grime.

“Look at you!” she said. “What a pretty picture you make! How proud your precious mother would be! How sad that she will never see you looking so pretty again!” With a wave of her arms, she encouraged the flames higher. “Soon this chamber will be aflame!”

The noise came from above their heads again, and her head jerked upwards.

“They’re coming for us,” said Arthur.

“What a pity that they are no match for me!” She cackled. “I will return. Enjoy my lovely fire, pretty things!” Backing towards a dark crack in the wall, she ducked through, no doubt heading to deal with the distant commotion, leaving them to the crackling flames.

“You’re insane, witch!” yelled Arthur, taking the opportunity for a good look around. He and Morgana were chained together, their backs against some sort of stone column. “You will kill us! You cannot marry a corpse!”

But only retreating footsteps and a distant peal of laughter answered him.

 

 

 

 

 

He struggled harder, straining against the chains that tied him to Morgana. Straining, pulling until they bit hard into the skin of his arms. Flexing his muscles against the rope that bound his wrists, until the friction burned him, then lessened, slick with blood.  All the while, the flames drew nearer, and the heat from them dragged sweat from his brow that fell into his eyes, blinding him, or was that blood too?

“It’s no good.” He slumped back, exhausted, and gasping.

“Arthur! Do something!” Morgana shrieked.

Arthur closed his eyes and drew in a massive breath, straining with all his might against the chains.

“Not like that, you idiot!” she said, her breathing harsh. “You’re crushing me! No, remember the conjuror that Ygraine hired for my birthday? He freed himself from his bonds by slipping out of them. You need to relax, Arthur. Relax!” There was a change to the feel of the chains as Morgana breathed deep. They loosened slightly against his arms.

Finally understanding her, he closed his eyes and let the tension seep from his shoulders.

The chains sagged a little as Morgana moved more sinuously, like a snake.

“That’s it,” he said.

“Shh! I’m trying to concentrate,” Morgana replied

“We need to hurry.” The chains shifted around him, They’d started to heat up as the encroaching fire drew closer, and felt hot against the skin of his arms, but as they warmed up they were getting looser and looser. “Before the metal blisters our skin.”

“Nearly there!” she gasped.

Suddenly, the chains fell to the floor with a clink, and she slipped free.

“You did it!” Struggling to his knees, his hands still tied together at the wrist, Arthur turned to exchange a triumphant grin with her.

But then the smile slipped from her face.

“But we’re still prisoners.”

Looking around, Arthur could see the truth in her words. The dark gash in the cave wall was the only means of escape. The two of them, unarmed, would have to battle against a powerful, insane enchantress to get out. He did not fancy the odds. They were trapped. And all the while, the ring of fire grew inexorably closer, its heat like a dragon’s breath beating against the skin of Arthur’s face.

The ring.

The ring!

“Around my neck?” Arthur whispered, stepping closer and ducking low. “Put your finger in the ring.”

“The ring?” Morgana hissed. “We are in mortal danger! Now is not the time to be thinking about jewellery, Arthur!”

“It is enchanted! You can escape and… and get help.”

“It’s on a chain!”

“Just yank the chain, it will break.”

“But, Arthur, what about you?”

“Just do it, Morgana.” He coughed. The line of fire was so close now that the smoke and sparks were making his eyes water, and his lungs felt tight.

“The fire…”

“I’ll carry you over it. It’s only as high as my boots.”

She gazed at him dumbly. Somewhere in the fire, a stone cracked and exploded with a loud bang that made them both jump.

Arthur knelt, and she crouched upon his back, hooking her still-bound wrists around his neck.

He straightened, her weight less than that of his armour. Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath through his nose, exhaling with a roar as he plunged forward through the flames, falling to his knees as a sudden rush of intense heat swept through him.

“Arthur?”

“I’m fine!” he said, ignoring the pain in his feet, head and wrists. “Just go!”

She took one final look at him, as if gauging the truth of his statement, and then grabbed at the chain around his neck with both hands, tugging hard until it came free.

Her mouth opened as if she was about to speak, and then she vanished.

“Morgana!” The ring had worked!

“I’m still here.” She said, quietly, the sound coming from where her mouth had been.

“Whatever for!” said Arthur. “Don’t just stand there!” He reached out with his hands, feeling for the warmth of her clothes  “Go!”

“Arthur?”

“I’ll be right behind you! Now, go!”

At last, the chamber fell silent, save for the crackling of the flames. Arthur smiled at the place where she had stood. He made to follow her, but stumbled, coughing. Just then, the ground shook with a heavy rumble and a huge boulder fell in his path, blocking the exit to the passageway.

“Arthur!” shrieked Morgana. Her voice from the other side of the boulder was muffled.

“Go!”  Leaning against the hard stone wall, he crouched in seated position, arms over his head. “Get help!”

He raised his knees in front of him to protect his face, and coughed as he waited for the flames to take him. Spots appeared before his eyes, and his breathing grew harsher. Far away, a loud scream ended abruptly in a loud crash. A distant roar, as if of some huge creature, made the cave walls shake again. But the sounds were growing fainter now, obscured by the ringing in his ears. Arthur’s eyes drooped closed as another hacking cough wracked his sore ribs, making stabbing pains dart through his head.

“Merlin,” he thought regretfully as he sank to the floor, chest heaving. The heat was intense, now, searing his arms and his legs. “I would have liked to see Merlin again.”

“Arthur?”

Arthur’s mind must have been playing tricks, borne of his longing, because he was sure that it was Merlin’s voice he heard yelling his name.

The chamber shuddered again. A sudden, cool fresh breeze sent welcome relief across his skin. He shivered. Something in the quality of the light changed, from flickering heat to cold sunlight.

“Arthur!” The voice was nearer, now, frantic. “Arthur, oh thank the Goddess! Hold on, we’re coming for you!”

“Merlin?” Arthur’s mouth was filling with a choking dust. He curled around a paroxysm of coughing.

A roar filled the chamber. Dust motes ignited, twinkling like tiny stars, and were extinguished.

Arthur turned his head, breathing through the fabric of his shirt. When he turned back, the air was clearer. Through the smoke and soot, he could make out a huge, reptilian figure, crouched upon the rubble. From its back leapt down a man. This man stumbled across the rubble towards Arthur, shouting his name.

“Merlin?” he breathed.

Blinking through dust-glued lashes, Arthur could just make out the figure of a huge beast of legend. A dragon! Arthur had never seen one before, but this one was enormous, bigger than the biggest warhorse, around ten feet long, with its wings tight in to its sides masking its bulk. A dragon so enormous that it could excavate through the ancient stones that topped the Queenbarrow.

As he watched, it shook its head. It hissed. It was injured, a weeping gash that stretched across its belly, red blood seeping from it.

At that moment, a tattered grey kirtle filled Arthur’s field of view.

“I will get you for this, Emrys,” whispered Nimueh, holding out a hand towards Merlin like a snake, poised to strike.

“My name is Merlin!” Merlin stretched out his hand, eyes turning a molten gold. “Arthur! Lookout!”

“Merlin!” Arthur yelled at the same time. “No!”

He grappled in the rubble for a rock. Something. Anything! Anything that he could wield to prevent the sorceress from attacking Merlin.

At that moment, an odd sensation washed over him, as if time itself stood still. Silvery light rays dazzled him, and his ears rang with mingled voices raised in song.  An indefinable herbal scent filled the chamber, reminding him of childhood summers in the woods of Camelot.

"Take the sword," whispered a quiet voice. "It is your destiny."

Abruptly, the peculiar feelings vanished. He must have imagined them, some sort of hallucination brought on by the stress and the pain. Even so, as he resumed scrabbling around among the dense, cold stones, his fingers closed over something that fitted his hand just so. He grasped it, tugging it free from the rock.

The broadsword slipped out with a triumphant ringing sound. Runes flickered along its length. Energised, Arthur staggered to his feet. He raised it above his head with a cry.

“For Camelot!”

There was no time to lose. Nimueh had started to incant. Streams of deadly light cascaded over her outstretched fingers. Writhing swirls of power plunged into her chest, back and head.

At his cry, she turned. An incandescent web of light pulsed and glowed over her skin. But it was her eyes that were the worst. So young and yet so ancient, a malevolent shade of orange that threatened eternal retribution.

“For Camelot,” he said more calmly, sword poised to strike.

“The sword!” she screeched. The nimbus of power that still surrounded her broadened, then dove to her fingers. She splayed them out wide. Blue light flickered from her fingertips.  “How did you pull it out? Give it to me and I will spare you!”

“Beware, witch!” bellowed an unfamiliar, deep voice that echoed through Arthur’s ribs. “For only Albion’s true champion can wield the sword I forged. The Pendragon boy took it from the stone. He is the one destined to unite Albion. No other may bear it, or the omens show that ruin will follow. ”

Puzzled, Arthur looked away from Nimueh for a split-second, before realising that it was the dragon who was speaking. Even now the beast rose up, poised as if to strike with its wicked talons.

“Now, Arthur!” yelled Merlin, stretching out his hand towards Nimueh with a word of command. “Kill her!”

But Nimueh laughed, an eerie sound, empty of joy.

“Your puny magic cannot harm me, dragontamer,” she said. Her eyes flashed golden. Suddenly the sword burned Arthur’s fingers with a fierce, cold pain. With a yell, he dropped the sword.

“Aha! Now I have it!” With a triumphant cry, Nimueh reached out with both hands. Tendrils of magic swirled ecstatically about the sword. The hilt lifted. The blade slowly started to drag across the floor. Its tip described a neat line in the dust.

“No!” the dragon bellowed. “The witch must not take the sword of Albion!”

Panting, ignoring the pain in his numbed fingers, Arthur fell to his knees. He grabbed for the sword, hissing at the instant pain that surged through him at its touch.

“Arthur!” Merlin screamed. “Arthur, no!”

But it was no good. The spell had sapped all dexterity from him. No matter how he fumbled, the sword slipped further and further away from him. Until, finally, it entered the circle of coruscating light that spun out around Nimueh. Swallowed up, it vanished..

“No!” Arthur shouted, flinging himself at the sphere of power. But it cast him back against the wall with a jolt.

“The sword is mine!” Nimueh started to spin, chanting as she did so. “I will have Morgana as my consort! Together we will rule this land!”

The dragon reached forward with its forelegs. But Nimueh was too quick. Its deadly talons met only thin air. A black cloud swirled around the ruined chamber. An unearthly screech made Arthur’s hair stand on end. But the cloud dissipated into the bright blue sky above. On the edge of hearing, fading laughter echoed and then was gone.   

Arthur and Merlin locked eyes. As one, they strode towards each other and embraced. He sank his face into the singed cloth of Merlin’s jacket and just breathed.

 

 

 

 

 

“Thought I’d lost you,” said Merlin, in a choked-off whisper. “Thought I’d lost you forever.”

“Me too, Merlin…” He tightened his grip on Merlin’s waistcoat into a fist, and pulled Merlin in closer so that he could feel every inch of him, warm and solid against his shaking body. “Me too.”

“Don’t do that to me again,” said Merlin eventually. “Clotpoll.”

“All right.” Arthur let out a shaky laugh.

“Are you all right?” said Merlin. His eyes were huge with concern.

“I’ll be fine,” lied Arthur. His lungs were still tight, and he started to cough, spasms making him loosen his grip on Merlin and bend double, hands on his knees. Part of him was grateful to have lost sensation in his fingertips, but they would need care soon, or the skin might slough off from the burn. As he coughed, pain shot through his head, still sore from his earlier maltreatment. But Arthur was alive, and while he was had breath in his body, he could fight. And most importantly, Morgana had escaped. That was all that mattered.  

“Come, young warlock.” The dragon’s voice disturbed their embrace. “We must not waste time. The witch will not rest until Albion is hers. We must track her to her lair, retrieve the sword, and destroy her, before she unbalances the land any further.”

“Come on Arthur,” said Merlin, bending, his arm warm along Arthur’s back, and dragging Arthur to his feet. “Let’s get you out of here, oh great champion, or you won’t be fit to wield anything.”

Together they hobbled towards the dragon, as Arthur’s brief answering chuckle turned into another coughing fit.

“Kilgharrah?” said Merlin, stroking the dragon’s flank. “You are injured. What happened?”

“Alas, the rocks of the Queenbarrow are jagged and worn, and the Goddess does not take kindly to those who destroy her sacred spaces,” rumbled Kilgharrah.

“I’m sorry.” Merlin sighed. “And I’m sorry to ask this of you, with that injury. But can you bear us both?”

“For a short distance.” The dragon obligingly held out a foreleg. With some trepidation, and encouragement from Merlin, Arthur stepped onto it, mounting as if it was a horse, taking care not to spear his limbs upon the rows of sharp spines that lined its back.

“So, you’re injured, are you, poor old thing?” murmured Arthur, patting its fore-shoulder as if it was his mare, Hengroen.

“Thank you for your concern, _young_ Pendragon.” It took a moment for Arthur to realise that the deep rumble that shook the dragon’s frame was nothing more sinister than a chuckle. “I will heal when I am rested. But now we need to catch the witch.”

“Thank you, old friend,” said Merlin. With an agile bound, probably the result of much practice, and, Arthur suspected, a slight element of showing off, which, if he was being honest with himself, was no more than Arthur would have used had the roles been reversed, Merlin jumped upon the beast’s back.

He tried to ignore the way that Merlin opened his legs to slide in behind him. But the heat from Merlin’s limbs and belly, warm and close around him, coupled with the adrenaline of the kidnap and subsequent rescue made a powerful ache uncurl in Arthur’s gut. And when Merlin leaned forward, and told him to keep low up on the beast’s back, his chest lined up in a protective crouch across Arthur’s thinly-clad back, it made heat pulse into his groin.  

But the moment of desire that flashed through him was quickly replaced by trepidation as the great dragon crouched. Stretching its neck high, with one mighty heave of its haunches, it lifted its wings above the broken ceiling of the Queenbarrow, and leaped into the bright sky.

 

 

 

 

 

Arthur closed his eyes at first, against the relentless light of the sun and the sheer terror that thrilled through him as the ground receded. But he forced them open again, taking in the glory of the green and abundant landscape, marvelling at the distant mountains that emerged from the horizon as they climbed. Kilgharrah wheeled and turned, gaining ever more height. Beneath them, tiny specks surrounded the Queenbarrow. The Queen’s army, swarming like ants into the broken chamber, would find little to comfort them there.

“Where are we going?” he yelled. Icy wind battered against him, making him shiver and cough. His eyes stung, and he could barely hear his own voice. Together, the creeping numbness in his fingertips and the coldness of the wind made his hands shake. Still clad in his ceremonial jacket and linen shirt, he wished for the protection of his gauntlets, and was grateful for the solid warmth of Merlin against his back. He shivered, despite the heat that percolated from Kilgarrah’s flanks through his breeches.  

“We’re following her!” Merlin’s breath was hot against his neck. Merlin pointed at a black smudge staining the bright azure of the skies.”Hold on tight!”

With a momentary pang that he had no time to stay and explain to his mother what had befallen them, Arthur closed his eyes against the pain and cold. All feeling gone from his hands, he held on as best he could with his knees, setting his jaw into a grim line.

 

 

 

 

 

Merlin couldn’t explain how he knew the path that Nimueh was following, but he supposed that it was something to do with the sword that she had stolen, the sword that he and Kilgharrah had forged as a gift to the house Pendragon. No ordinary blade, its metal was imbued with Merlin’s magic, and conferred Kilgharrah’s protection upon the user. Now it called to him, somehow, its magic sang to him in counterpoint to the power that thrummed beneath his skin and rushed in his ears.

Ever since he’d been small, he had never been more at ease than when he travelled upon dragonback. His magic offset the chill of the high atmosphere. Exhilaration, combined with the tingle of his skin from the heat and cold of the elements, made him feel alive, somehow.

But Arthur – Arthur was injured, and in pain and discomfort. The way that he slumped across Kilgharrah’s back, his chest heaving, made Merlin’s gut twist in anxious knots.

“Hold on, Arthur,” he said, tightening his grip around Arthur’s waist. But Arthur’s only answer was a hacking cough that shook him so hard that he was nearly dislodged altogether. And then Arthur slumped forward, arms dangling loose by his side.

.

“Kilgharrah!” Merlin spoke now with his mind, using the bond of kinship that linked them. “We need to stop. Arthur is sick.” The Goddess only knew what impact this sudden cold would have on Arthur’s lungs, already weakened from the fire. He cursed Nimueh and her greed.

“Peace, young warlock.” Kilgharrah’s pace slowed and his wingtips stilled as he soared, high above the forests and mountains. “The witch does not know that we are following her. We are nearing her lair, even now. I feel it, the sword draws me.”

“Me too.” Merlin shifted Arthur’s limp bulk, grunting with the effort. “But Arthur has passed out. We must stop and make camp, or Albion will lose her champion before she has even had a chance to claim him.” His eyes stung, and he swallowed. “Please, Kilgharrah.”

“I am already preparing to land, Merlin.” The dragon’s rumble of displeasure made his ribs vibrate beneath Merlin’s thighs. “Be patient.”

Kilgharrah circled, painfully slow, towards a clearing in the dark woodlands at the base of one of Gwynnedd’s glowering black mountains.

“I am being patient.” Pressing his trembling lips together, to avoid angering the dragon further by urging him to hurry, Merlin rested his face on Arthur’s back. Closing his eyes, he willed Arthur to hold on. “Stay with me,” he whispered, his tears cooling on his cheeks. “Please. I love you.”

But Arthur did not answer.

When they landed in the clearing. Arthur’s body was floppy and lifeless, and his eyes were closed as he lolled in Merlin’s grip. His eyelids flickered, lashes fluttering, but his golden hair lay lank and matted with sweat and blood upon his brow. His lips parted, as if he was trying to speak.

“Arthur!” Merlin crouched over him, heart clenching, and knelt by his side. “What is it? Speak to me, clotpoll!” He lay his palm upon Arthur’s cheek, stroking a streak of sweat and soot away with his thumb.

“Hurts…” Arthur exhaled as he spoke, and it came as a sigh. As if that one word had taken his last breath from him, he turned his head away, eyes flickering shut.

“It’s all right, Arthur, we’re going to make you better,” said Merlin, terror making his lips move, not knowing what he was saying. He brushed a loose lock of hair from Arthur’s forehead. “You’re going to be fine again, I swear.” He leaned his ear upon Arthur’s rib cage to listen for signs of life. “Come on, clotpoll! Wake up, now! Albion needs you! I need you! Arthur! Arthur, please!” His voice cracked as he pleaded.

But it was no good. No matter how hard he tried, how much he railed, and yelled, and sobbed, the bitter tears that fell upon Arthur’s face went unheeded. Arthur’s eyelids did not even flutter. Worse, when he touched Arthur’s hands, a dark magic radiated from them, making Merlin’s fingers twitch away. Merlin peeled away Arthur’s sleeve, and gasped in horror. The magic trailed visibly up Arthur’s wrists in cold black lines that reached up towards his elbows and beyond.

Trembling, he gazed beseechingly up through blurring eyes at Kilgharrah.

“You have to do something!” he yelled, chest heaving. “Light a fire or something! He’s…” he couldn’t bring himself to say the word.

“The Pendragon boy is fading fast, Merlin,” said Kilgharrah. How could he be so calm? “The witch enchanted the blade, and the impetuous boy touched it—”

“You told him to!” yelled Merlin. “This is all your fault.”

“It was not I that hexed the boy!” said Kilgharrah. “And now, alas, I fear that her enchantment is rising up his arms towards his body. I fear that when it reaches his heart…?”

“No!” Merlin dashed angry tears from his eyes and a sudden resolve washed over him, like a cold ocean wave, pushing vigour into his tired limbs. “I can’t lose him, not now, I… By the Goddess, I swear that I will not let that happen.” Stripping out of his dragonriding overgarments, he lay Arthur’s prone body reverently upon them, away from the cold damp earth, in hope that some of the residual heat from Merlin’s body might comfort him. Cupping Arthur’s cold, rough hands between both of his, he muttered a healing spell, and breathed into them. “Can’t you heal him?”

“Alas.” Kilgharrah’s breath was hot upon Merlin’s cheek. “I myself am injured and lack strength from our long journey. I fear that my capacity for healing cannot save us both.”

“No!” With a start, Merlin realised that blood was oozing from Kilgharrah’s belly, and the great dragon’s eyes had dimmed, and were closing. The fear that gripped him for a moment made his legs buckle. “I am sorry, old friend!” His breath hitched, and the anticipation of loss shot through him. “We pushed you too far! You should have said…” He took in a shaky breath that was dangerously close to a sob. “I wish Freya and Aithusa were here.” Freya, Hunith’s ward, and the white dragon Aithusa were the most accomplished healers in all Ealdor.

“Fear not, young warlock. I am not mortally wounded, merely in need of rest. ” The dragon’s placed his great head upon his forepaws and yawned. “But why do you not summon Aithusa here?”

“That’s all very well, but how?” He ground his teeth together in frustration. Normally, he would mindspeak to Aithusa, or, if further away, call to Kilgharrah, with whom he had a closer bond, and who would then relay the message. And they would come, he was sure of it. But they were too far from Ealdor to mindspeak across the distance. There was no way of summoning them, not with Kilgharrah here, and wounded.

“Foolish warlock.” Groaning, with a rumble that sounded deep within his chest, Kilgharrah stretched out his long neck towards the canopy of bare branches that loomed over them. An alarmed flock of jackdaws fled, squawking their protest. “Did you not receive a gift at your betrothal?”

“Oh!” Merlin had forgotten. Groping at his belt, he drew out the jewelled horn. Its length was adorned with the carved figure of a dragon. As he drew a finger along it, the dragon’s wings glowed in the light of a stray sunray. A sudden hope rushed through him, as golden as the sunlight. Looping his wrist through the straps, he closed his eyes. “Aithusa!” he said out loud, willing Aithusa to him, pushing all his magic into the thought, as he put the horn to his lips and blew.  

But the horn’s mouthpiece was cold against his lips, and no sound came out.

“It’s no good,” he said, voice shaking. A crushing disappointment squeezed his chest. “I can’t do it. Look!” Pursing his lips, he blew with all his might, but he did not know how to make the horn sound. In frustration, he cast it upon the dark ground beside Arthur, where it lay, gleaming as if taunting him.

 

 

 

 

 

“Then you must go and plead with the witch to lift the enchantment, and recover the sword from her.” Kilgharrah settled beside Arthur, his bulk flattening twigs with sharp cracks. “I will keep your champion warm. I am sorry, dear friend. My strength is fading. It is all I can do.”

“Right.” Merlin stood up, and patted Kilgharrah’s flank. It felt warm to the touch. But Kilgharrah’s eyes had closed, and he did not answer. Worry washed over him in a cloud that made him feel sick, and he hoped that the old dragon was telling the truth.

“Arthur.” Bending with a sigh, he put his forehead to Arthur’s, reassured by the warmth that still met him there. “Stay here. I will return, and I will save you, I swear.” Kneeling up to shrug off his shirt, he placed it carefully under Arthur’s head. The cold afternoon air raised bumps upon his skin, and a sudden breeze stirred Arthur’s fine hair. “Sleep, dear Prince.”

As an afterthought, he placed the horn on Arthur’s chest, ignoring the sudden ache that clenched his belly at the lifelessness of Arthur’s prone form. Drawing his magic to him, he chanted a healing spell.

_“Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare mid þam sundorcræftas þære ealdaþ æ!”_

He gasped as the power drained from him through his outstretched hand. A reflected sunbeam brightened the glowing dragon motif etched along the horn’s side suddenly, dazzling him so that he had to look away. When he looked back, for a moment, he thought that the pain etched on Arthur’s face had softened a little.

But he must have been imagining things. Arthur did not move, and his pulse still juddered erratically under Merlin’s fingers. He was mortally wounded, that was clear, and only by breaking the witch’s spell might Merlin save him.

Clenching his jaw against his sudden weariness, Merlin trudged away across the clearing. He headed towards a meandering path that led up the mountain. Far off, up among the grey crags, the sword called to him. As cold steel calls to a magnet. He fought to quell the tremors that wracked his exhausted frame. Still blinded by tears, he stumbled over a rock, grazing his knee.

But with a wrench he staggered back to his feet. Ignoring the pain that flashed through his leg with every step, he lurched on. This was no time for weakness. With Kilgharrah injured, only Merlin could save Arthur now.

 

 

 

 

 

Princess Morgana was not accustomed to being left behind.

Her first instinct, when the vast black cloud billowed out from the desecrated Queenbarrow, was to follow it and fight her captor. She could sense the malevolence that still drove the cloud, which scudded towards the distant hills. The magic it held made her skin prickle and set her teeth on edge.

But terror gripped her a moment later. A huge creature erupted from the ground, with two familiar figures perched upon its back. A dragon! Dark and slimy, just as she had dreamed. Her limbs trembled.

“No!” Knees buckling, she screamed herself hoarse. A dragon! All the fears she had ever harboured, all her nightmares become flesh. And it had taken her brother and Merlin. Her breath came in great, gasping sobs.

“Hush, my lady.” Gwen’s hand was warm upon her back. “They will be all right. Merlin is a dragontamer, remember?”

She had almost forgotten, but Guinevere’s voice and her hand were comforting. She buried her face in Gwen’s shoulder, trembling as Gwen smoothed her hair and whispered soothingly.

The next time she looked up, the dragon was a tiny speck, a faint mote wheeling through the faint blue mist into the far distance.

“What the hell do they think they’re playing at?” said Hunith. Her mouth was set in a thin, disapproving line. .

“Bloody idiots, the pair of them,” agreed Ygraine Pendragon, hands upon her hips, her face pale.

“Not a brain cell between them,” said Hunith, eyes narrowed. “Boys!” She shook her head.

They watched for a moment, as the speck dwindled to a mere hint, and then vanished.

“Your Majesty,” said a tentative voice. Gwen. Sweet, concerned Gwen. “Perhaps the army could reassemble the Queenbarrow – and we could take counsel in Camelot? I fear that lady Morgana might be tired after her ordeal…”

“I’m fine,” protested Morgana, even as her knees threatened to give out under her.

“Are you giving me an order, dear Guinevere?” said the Queen, smiling grimly.

The Queen had been among the first to notice Morgana, when she had stumbled out of the collapsing passageway into the grey dawn, wrenching Arthur’s ring from her finger, and screaming to the assembled crowds that they had to do something, had to save him. But it had been Gwen who had rushed forward to hold her where she fell, to smooth her hair and steady her faltering steps when she rose and implored the Queen for help. Dear, kind Gwen, whose warm fingers had not left Morgana’s upper arm, and whose quiet voice had calmed her when she tried to explain. Her words tumbled and tripped at first, of course. But Gwen had understood her. Darling, sweet Gwen with her strong, goldsmith’s hands and her worried, brown eyes. Brave Gwen, who though timid was not afraid to issue orders to the Queen of Camelot when she saw fit.

“She’s right, you know, Ygraine, dear!” Hunith barked out a surprised laugh at Gwen’s boldness. “You’d best do as she says.”

The morning light picked out lines on the Queen’s face – lines of care and wisdom, etched by time and experience. She turned and barked commands to her generals, who stood silent and alert behind her.

“Come, Morgana, Morgause, Guinevere, Hunith,” she said when the troops had at last scattered to do her bidding. “Let us confer in the comfort of the council chamber.” Without further ado, she hitched up her skirts, and stalked off back towards the citadel.

“My Lady?” Gwen touched Morgana’s elbow as they picked their way across the soot-blackened stones that peppered the greensward. “Are you all right?”

“What me? Oh, I’m fine!” said Morgana, bitterly. “I’m just dandy! My idiot brother and my idiot consort-to-be have just been kidnapped by a creature of nightmares. And an obsessed harpy with a grudge is trying to force me to marry her. And the Queen is ordering us about as usual, but don’t worry about poor me, don’t bother consulting me about anything, just go ahead, and do whatever you see fit to do, everyone else does.”  

A distant part of her shouted that it wasn’t Gwen’s fault, and she shouldn’t be taking it out on her, but it felt too good to just let it all out. She willed herself on, one foot after the other, following the ramrod straight back of the Queen and the light steps of the dragontamer through the gate of the citadel. Trying to ignore the way that her skin pricked from stench of smoke and fear that clung to her clothes.

Everything would be fine if she just kept going. Putting one foot in front of another. Taking great gulps of the clear, cold air. Banishing the aroma of cinders. Concentrating on how the riot of spring birdsong drowned out the remembered crackle of flames. The way that the solidity of Gwen’s hand drove out the terror of being discorporeal, invisible, a mere wisp of air. The way that Gwen’s hair tumbled across her shoulders.  

Morgana shivered despite herself, grateful that Gwen didn’t let her hand drop. But her eyes filled with tears and she stumbled. Steady and warm, Gwen held her up, slipping an arm around her back.  

“When this is all over and the men are back,” said Gwen, lightly, “We’ll go down to the bath house. Right?”

“Huh.” said Morgana, voice cracking a little. “Sounds awful.”

It did sound good, though. A bath to wash away the stench and the acrid, salt-sticky smell of fear. She sniffed, dashing at her nose with the back of her hand. It came away disgusting and slimy with snot and soot that stained her skin and the fine muslin of her gown.

“We’ll fill the bathhouse with fragrant herbs.” Gwen carried on, tilting her head on one side as she flashed Morgana a lopsided smile.  “And we’ll wash together, with the water so hot that it’ll make us feel giddy and flushed. I’ll bathe your skin in the finest oil. Smooth it on with my fingers to rub away all the knots of care. Do you think you’ll like that?”

“No!” lied Morgana, trying to focus on the path in front of her. It swam in and out of focus.

But Gwen prattled on,unconcerned by Morgana’s surly demeanor. As she talked, Morgana gradually stopped shivering, warmed partly by exertion, partly by the pale spring sun upon her skin. But mostly by the affection and concern that Gwen showed her, even though she was being churlish and boorish and a bit of a prat.

 

 

 

 

 

By the time they were sitting in conference, with minions scurrying about carrying messages here and there, Morgana’s initial disquiet had faded somewhat. But she held onto Gwen’s hand under the council table, just in case.

The huge council chamber held a vast, round table. The room, gloomy, despite the daylight that shone in through the windows at the top of the rotunda, was surrounded by lit torches in sconces, their flames making flickering shadows dance upon the papers. At each entrance, a pair of armed guards in ceremonial chainmail stood, reassuring and erect, halberds at the ready.

“Can you repeat that, please, Morgause,” Ygraine was saying, fingers steepled.

“Essetir,” Morgause said. “They were flying in that direction. The Prince Consort tracked her there. That must be where her lair is.”

“Hunith?”

“I disagree.” Hunith’s expression was intent. “We should get in touch with Annis – they were flying towards Caerleon, and I’m sure the witch’s lair is in the Black Mountains. The dragons speak of a presence there…”

Dragons! Grimacing, Morgana shivered.

“What do you know?” Morgause leapt to her feet and thumped the table with her fist. “The dragons are fickle creatures. Do you dare gainsay me?”

“Silence!” said the Queen, in frosty tones that brooked no argument. “Hunith’s view is not without merit…”

And it was then that Morgana felt, with clarity, what she needed to do. Zoning out the discussion, she fixed her gaze on the flickering fire in one of the sconces, and traced the fine threads of the future that could take Arthur’s steps forward, and Merlin’s. The flame grew higher, and images flashed in front of her. Her breath hitched as the terror took her.

_Dragons! A white dragon. A cat – or rather, a great, snarling black beast with slavering jaws like a cat. Arthur, face still and lifeless. Merlin, eyes aflame. The witch, Nimueh, laughing. Laughing. And then silence, and a dim greenness, peaceful. The sword, flashing silver and gold, dark fire picking out the runes along its blade. A boat, a funeral pyre, drifting across a lake. Dragons, so many of them, fire shooting from their mouths at the pyre. It catches and spins, sending flames shooting into the mist. Far in the distance, a tall tower on an island._

_Avalon._

She sucked in a deep breath, as if emerging from deep under the sea.

 

 

 

 

 

Glittering eyes were upon her.

“Avalon,” she whispered. Her voice sounded hollow, reedy to her own ears. Remote. As if it did not belong to her. “We will find them at Avalon. Whether for good or for ill, only time will tell. The gods are fickle. They give with one hand, and take with the other.”

Silence fell, and her strength left her.

“Morgana!” Hands, gentle hands guided her. Softness and peace took her.

“Gwen,” she thought, soothed.

 

 

 

 

 

Cold. So cold.

Arthur blinked awake. Was it the pain in his hands that had woken him? Or the glare of the sun on his eyelids, painfully bright. He wasn’t sure. He tried to flex his fingers, but they were stiff and numb. Turning his head to one side, he squinted at his surroundings. The great dragon, Merlin’s companion, lay prone beside him, unmoving.

“Merlin?” he whispered. “Dragon? Wake up!” The effort made him cough. A flock of birds, startled by the sound, flapped and cawed. But still the dragon did not move.

Something warm and heavy rested on his chest. His movements dislodged it. A tinkle sounded to one side as whatever it was slid onto the ground.

He reached for it, his damaged hands useless. Clawing at it, he grasped it between his wrists. It flashed in the golden sunlight, and then fell from his slack grip. A hunting horn or something similar. After a moment, he recognised it, with a thrill of hope. Of course! It was the dragon-summoning horn that Morgana had fashioned for Merlin. He had blown such things before, knew that the secret lay in the vibration of his lips.

Struggling onto his side, he hooked its strap over his fist, dragging it towards him until it lay upon the soil by his side. A sharp jab of pain shot through his head, and he gasped, vision blurring for a second. But then somehow he levered himself onto one elbow. With a short struggle, he manoeuvred it to his lips, held between both wrists once more. It shook. Taking a gasping breath, he blew into it. A note sounded, quiet and clear, then another above it.

But still the dragon did not move. Was it dead?

Despair washed over him now. With the great dragon dead, and Merlin gone, what hope was there for them to defeat Nimueh now? What dragon was there to heed his summons? Putting his weight onto his elbow, he tried to struggle up to his feet. But the intensity of the pain shot from his elbow through to his chest and back was beyond anything that he’d ever experienced. Overwhelmed, he slumped forward onto his chest, tasting bare soil and blood where he fell. Was this the end?

The darkness took him as ice tightened its grip around his chest.

 

 

 

 

 

The white dragon’s wings twitched, as if she dreamed of some urgent flight or hunt. Most people referred to Aithusa as the white one. But Freya knew that actually her translucent scales were colourless, they caught the light and split it into many colours that merged, as if her hide was woven from threads of sunlight. Here, high above the world, in the cave near the summit of the mountain, plump and replete from her hunt, Aithusa shimmered as she slept. Freya could happily watch her all day.

But abruptly, Aithusa jerked awake.

“Dear one?” Confused, Freya nuzzled at her neck. “Bad dream?”

“Merlin!” Aithusa was already scuttling towards the cave opening, her claws clicking on the stone floor in an agitated staccato. “He is in danger! Kilgharrah is hurt! We have been called!”

“Wait, dear one!” After yawning and stretching, Freya padded after Aithusa, who perched at the edge of the vast cliff above Ealdor, wings outstretched. “Are you sure? You have only just eaten! You should be resting!”

“He needs me!” said Aithusa, with a huff that filled the air with smoke and smuts that made Freya sneeze. “I must go, or it will be too late!”

“Well, if you must.” Freya yawned. It had been a long hunt, and Aithusa was only a young dragon. But Freya had never seen her this anxious before. “But I’m coming with you.”

“Hurry!” Aithusa snorted, tendrils of steam clouding out of both nostrils, and pawed the ground.

“All right.” Drawing back onto her haunches, Freya paused for a moment then leaped onto Aithusa’s shoulder, burying her nose into the warm scales. She settled her limbs around Aithusa’s ridges, clinging on firmly but gently so as not to damage the tender hide. “I’m ready.”

Without further preamble, the dragon launched herself over the edge. Suddenly the familiar rush of the wind filled Freya’s senses. She hunkered down against the dragon’s shoulders, wondering what sort of trouble her adopted brother had got himself into now.

 

 

 

 

 

By the time Merlin reached the entrance to Nimueh’s cave, he was famished. It had been a long time since he broke his fast, and the sun was now high in the sky. A fresh breeze rustled in the treetops beneath his high perch, here on the black crags.

The witch had set concealing wards around the cave’s entrance. But the hum of the sword still drew him, making his skin tingle. Heart pounding, he closed his eyes. He reached for the wards with tentative fingers. He had to take care. If he tripped them, she would know he was there.

They stretched between the rocks like infinitely thin, steel threads. With an abrupt flick of his fingers, he broke one with a silent spell. Stood stock still, waiting. Would the witch erupt from the cave, fingers outstretched, crackling with power and rage?

But the world remained silent.

He dared another cautious twitch of his fingers. The ping of the breaking ward echoed loud in his head. But far above a blackbird burst into song. Taking that as a sign that he had succeeded, he brushed the remaining strands away, and stood flush up against the rockface. Peering into the silent blackness, he stepped inside.

“ _Leohte!_ ” he breathed on his hands, creating an orb of translucent light that shimmered and flickered against the jagged stone.

“I see that those cowardly Pendragons have sent their pet warlock to do their dirty work.” A shabby figure slipped out from behind a spur, her hand outstretched.

“Stay where you are, witch.” Merlin slammed up a protective shield. Dark fire erupted from his fingertips.

“Why?” She continued her slow advance, until they were face to face, separated only by a yard or two. Her eyes were dark, with a rim of fierce violet-and-gold. Her voice seductive and low, thick with enchantment. “Why do you protect them? The Pendragons. They lie, they cheat, they sow only destruction in their wake. They will steal from you without blinking. Just think what you and I could do together, Emrys. The Queen and the Dragontamer.”

“You are no Queen,” he said with an effort. He shook his head, as if to shake the enchantments away. It felt like mud. “You attacked them! At the flyting! And the betrothal! You would have killed innocent people!”

“I merely sought the return of what is rightfully mine.” She stalked towards him, forcing him to shuffle backwards or be trapped. “The kingdom of Camelot, and my betrothed, Morgana. I will have what I was promised!”

“You are deluded!” said Merlin. “What of Morgana’s choices? Does she not have a say in her fate? She is promised to me. But I will not force her to take me against my will. Would you?”

Nimueh bit her lip. She resembled a young maiden, caught running away from home. But Merlin was not fooled.

“Perhaps we should ask her to choose.” Sensing that he had an advantage, Merlin pressed it. “If she chooses you of her own volition, I will not stand in your way.”

“Go to hell.” She snorted and held up her hand as if to blast him there.

“Not so fast.” He reached out with one hand and grabbed her arm. The shield shimmered around him as it distorted to accommodate his movement.

“Let me go.” She struggled, but Merlin’s power imbued his grip. “You are no better than those Pendragons.” She spat out the word, eyes flashing a venomous shade of green.

Grimly, he held on.

“You injured Arthur,” he said. “He is mortally wounded. Show mercy and return him to me. If you do that, then you I will release you unharmed.”

“What? Are you trying to threaten me?” Her laughter echoed around the cavern even as she struggled against his grip. “Oh this is priceless! Who are you, a mere fledgling, to trade threats and bargains with the Queen of the Underworld?” The rising volume of her voice made his ears protest and the earth beneath him tremble.

“Quiet, witch!” Merlin extended his free hand to the rocks that surrounded them. Seeking the fault lines within it. With a deafening echo the walls behind him fell, trapping them in the cave. He tasted dust, gritty against his tongue. His illuminating spell cast black shadows dancing about the cave. Rubble surrounded them, obscuring the daylight.

“No!” she screeched. “You fool! You have trapped us!”

“Release Arthur from his enchantment and return the sword that Kilgharrah and I forged for Albion’s champion,” said Merlin calmly. “In return I will free you. Those are my terms.”

“Ah. Your beloved Arthur. Pathetic. For one so powerful to be in thrall to a mere brute.”

“Arthur is no brute,” he retorted. “He is a man of honour and courage. Now. Do you agree to my terms?”

“Never!” she said. She wrestled her arm free. Turning her back on him, she whirled her garments about her and retreated through a deep crack in the back of the cave.

“You won’t get away with this.” Grinding his teeth in frustration, Merlin followed, the pale globe of light bobbing along in his wake like a pet.

 

 

 

 

 

There was a nearby snarl, a deep noise that sent a visceral thrill through Arthur’s chest and put all his senses on full alert. Something hot and wet was nuzzling at his cheek. Surging to his knees, he fumbled for his sword, but it wasn’t there. His blood sang in his ears, urging him to fight. He cast around for a weapon. His hand  alighted on something hard and heavy. Swiftly, he grabbed it, holding it away from him. The horn, he remembered it now. It was heavy enough, though too blunt to do much damage.

A huge, black beast circled him, fangs bared. He feigned at the beast, yelling at it.

His fingers, no longer numb, throbbed as he flexed them. Fumbling, he cast the horn at the beast’s head with all his might.

But the creature dodged the blow easily. Snarling, it lunged towards him, and he fell back, stumbling over a log. A warm wall stayed his fall, and he smelled soot. He spun round. A huge, white dragon stood over him. Its growl was deep and menacing.

He was trapped.

 

 

 

 

 

“She healed you, you prat.” A voice – the dragon? Sounded above his head. “Of all the ungrateful brutes! I’ve a mind to eat him. Can I eat him, Freya?”

“Hush, Aithusa,” another voice replied, this time from the enormous black creature that still circled him, growling. Some sort of a huge panther-like beast. Sleek and black, with dark, bat-like wings. Surely it couldn’t speak! “Let us find out what the bastard has done to Merlin and Kilgharrah first. Then we can share him between us.”

“Hoi!” yelled Arthur, lashing out with his feet. He wished he had a better weapon.

“Can I have his liver?” said the dragon. Its eyes glowed a mad red-orange. 

“No you can’t,” Arthur stumbled back, fumbling upon the ground behind him for a stick, a rock, anything. “Wait! It was me that summoned you!”

“Where is Merlin?” said the dragon, bending over him. Its sulphurous breath made him want to gag. “Why is Kilgharrah injured? Did you hurt him? If you did, I will have your liver for breakfast.”

“No!” Heart thumping, Arthur thought quickly. “Kilgarrah fell, the rocks hurt him. And it was Nimueh’s fault! The witch. Kilgharrah was helping Merlin to rescue me. But I don’t know where Merlin is!”

“Who are you? And how did you summon Aithusa?” said the panther, pacing. It still blocked his escape.

“I don’t know.” Arthur swallowed. “I… I don’t remember much. I was hurt. And there was a horn. This horn. I sounded the horn, and then… wait. I haven’t coughed. And my head – it doesn’t hurt any more. How… what…?”

“I have lifted the spell that threatened you, brute though you are.” The beast turned its back on him, hindquarters twitching, and leaned over Kilgharrah. “Magic spoils the flavour of game, anyway. Lower your weapon. We are not going to eat you. Yet. First I must tend to my comrade.” To Arthur’s astonishment, the panther licked at the jagged gash that marred Kilgarrah’s belly. Sunlight gathered, in rivers of gold, where the cat’s tongue had been. The flesh began to knit together before his very eyes until Kilgharrah was awake and blinking.

“You must eat, great one!” said the white dragon, Aithusa.  

“Aaaah!” Kilgharrah stretched out his wings, towering over them until his bulk masked the light of the sun. “My stomach! I could eat a horse.” The whump-whump of his wings raised great clouds of dirt and dust that had Arthur choking and turning his head until the dragon was airborne.

“But what about Merlin?” Arthur shouted after him. “You can’t just leave him to the mercy of the witch!”

“I cannot help him now, young princeling.” Kilgharrah’s voice grew more distant. “Go to him! It is your destiny!”

“But I’m injured!” Although as he patted his ribs he realised this was no longer true. Breathing deeply, he stretched up to his full height, flexing his shoulders and hands.

“Not any more.” The cat still prowled around him, and the suspicion in her luminous green eyes made him shiver. “I will help Merlin, if you are too afraid. Princeling.” Her voice was sharp, an accusation.

“Are you calling me a coward?” said Arthur. Outrage surged through him.  “I would have your head for that dishonour.”

But the cat did not reply. Instead, she sniffed the ground and bounded off towards the trail that Merlin had followed. The white dragon hovered overhead.

“Wait for me.” Grabbing a sturdy piece of fallen wood, Arthur loped after them. There would be time enough to defend his honour after the witch had been defeated.

 

 

 

 

 

The clouds had lowered and shrouded the mountain in a thick pall of dense fog. Misty tendrils drifted through the treetops like ghosts.

The panther trotted ahead. Her clawed paws made light work of moss-covered boulders and brambles. But they made Arthur slip and stumble. Grim-jawed and disorientated, he took one step at a time. Into the unknown he trudged. On and up, grateful for the nails on his boots and the lightness of his ceremonial clothes. He wished for a water skin. Despite the cool, spring weather, his throat was dry. From time to time, he stopped for a moment to suck moisture from a damp bramble leaf, or scoop peaty water from a tumbling stream. It was not enough. But it was all he had.

As he scrambled up, he snapped off a sturdy tree branch. When he used it to jab at the ground, his gait steadied.

It had been an hour or more of heavy, fast climbing. Arthur’s heart pounded and his lungs pumped harshly from the exertion. The panther stopped abruptly, pacing beside a mound of rocks. From the look of the scar in the ground above her, they had recently fallen from higher up the cliff.

“Why have we stopped?” he said, frowning.

“It’s a dead end.” The panther snarled at him, fangs bared

He flinched, but stood his ground.

“Merlin was here,” she added, her breath raising clouds even amid the misty air. “But his trail goes no further.”

“Did magic do this?” Arthur stared up at the landslip, heart sinking as he worked through the implications..

“I don’t know.” Freya crouched and extended her wings, flapping hard to join Aithusa who hovered overhead. “Cave systems like this riddle the mountains here. Aithusa and I are going to see if there is another entrance, somewhere. Wait here, princeling.”

“How will you know…” he trailed off, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid. But really, how could an overgrown cat and an underdeveloped dragonling hope to find a tiny cleft in a huge mountain like this? “We should dig.”

With all his strength, Arthur tugged at a medium-sized boulder. It budged only a little, before a scattering of tiny stones and pebbles above his head started to tumble down the shoulders of the mountain with a whisper of hisses and pings that grew progressively louder.

“Stop that, princeling, or you’ll have the mountain down on top of you!” called Freya from somewhere up in the mist. “Freyja protect us! Of all the Infuriating, ignorant, patronising princes, Merlin had to get mixed up with this one!”

“There’s no need to be so rude!” he yelled back. “I just thought—”

“That must have been a novelty, for you!” She yelled back. “Listen, you arrogant ape. We are cave dwellers, we of the dragontamers. We understand the structure of the earth’s bones, how its sinews grind press together. Where the gaps appear in its armour. And we can see with sound.”

He swallowed. He had not known that. Another, more alarming shower of larger pebbles rained down on him. Heart pounding, he ducked. But then, as abruptly as it had started, it stopped.

“Fine, fine,” he conceded, settling with a groan onto a rock that didn’t seem quite as jagged as the others. He buried his head in his hands. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Silence filled the ledge on which he stood. Silence, mixed with relief. And, at the edge of hearing, the crack of a wing flapping.

Elbows on his knees, Arthur closed his eyes, pressed his eyelids with the heels of his hands, and tried to think. Merlin must have gone down into the mountain to find the witch. Even now, he may lie trapped in the darkness beneath. Maybe injured. Just as he and Morgana  had been, only that morning. His breath hitched at the memory. But Merlin had rescued him..

Lifting his head, he drew in a shaky breath.

“I will find you, Merlin, I swear,” he vowed, deep within his soul. “Or die in the attempt.”

Thick-swirling mists drifted and boiled around his lonely perch. A fine drizzle was falling, drenching  his clothes. As he waited for the dragons to return, he whittled at a sturdy tree-branch with a rock from the recent fall. Polishing its tip to a fine point. It would do, as a spear, if needed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reluctantly, Merlin doused the light with a silent command. The sudden dark was thick with dust. He pulled his scarf up around his mouth, and closed his eyes to reach out with his mind.

Years ago, deep in the vast caverns of Ealdor, he and his friends Will and Freya had played this game. Blindfolded, honing their other senses so that they could hide and find each other. Silently laughing as they fumbled to grasp at each other in the inky blackness. Though the stakes were higher now, the instincts were the same.

He slipped through the crack.

The sword, too, called to him. His magic thrummed within it, mingled with Kilgarrah’s. It drew him like an invisible thread through the chasms under the mountain. Silent footfall after silent footfall. His fingertips dragged along the jagged, cold stone. All those years ago, Freya had taught him how to listen for the edges of the rock as it lowered and narrowed, or as it spread and plunged away. He took his time, kneeling every now and then to avoid cracking his head, slithering down steep crevasses on his back side.

Reaching a wide passageway, he stepped cautiously towards a glimmer of light. It flickered and danced, like a flame. As he approached, it dimmed and then flicked out. Heart hammering, he stepped closer. Despite the dark, he felt the passageway widen into a huge cavern, high overhead.

Without warning, a force slammed him against the wall of the cavern. It compressed around his throat. Gasping, he clasped at his chest, reaching for his magic.

“You are persistent, dragontamer.” Nimueh’s mocking voice echoed in his ears. “Submit to me and I will let you go.”

“No!” he said. Free hand splaying, he cast a dizzying light into the cavern. The pressure on his chest eased. With an effort, he heaved himself to his feet. Panting, he gazed around him.

Nimueh stood before him, eyes aflame. Bitterness played around her mouth. The sword, Excalibur, stood before her, blade down. She was grasping its hilt with both hands.

“You will never wield that sword, Nimueh!” he said, inching towards her, hand outstretched. “Kilgharrah forged it. It was born of the earth and the sky. It has chosen its champion, and will not be gainsaid.”

“The princeling is dying. He will never have it!” She spat at the ground in front of him even as she struggled to lift it. “Morgana shall have it, and Camelot will be mine!”

“No.” He took another step. So close. A handful more paces and he could reach the sword. “You’re wrong. It will not submit to her, not now. Come with me, Nimueh. It is over. Heal Arthur, and you can be free.”

“Never!” Her face contorted with rage, and she thrust her hand towards him even as he groped for the sword.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A wall of power hit him. He skittered backwards and fell. Slamming into the rock, he cried out. Painfully, he lifted himself first onto his elbows. Then to his knees.

“I would rather go to hell, and take you with me, puny dragontamer, than bargain with you, or a Pendragon,” she said in a low voice, heavy with triumph. With a huge effort, she hauled at the great sword. But its tip sank slowly into the rock.

“Stop it!” she screeched, tugging and tugging. “Get out of there!”

But with every pull at the sword, every spell that she screamed, the blade slipped deeper and deeper into the solid rock of the cave, until only the hilt showed.

“It will not obey you,” said Merlin.

“You!” Abandoning her struggle, she turned to him, pale light streaming from her fingertips. Excalibur flashed bright at her feet. But then a black cloud rose around her, blanking out all light. It edged towards him, seeming to reach for him, like black claws. A choking stench preceded it, and he started to cough.  

He flung his hands up to protect himself a split-second too late. There wasn’t even time to brace himself for the pain. As it flashed and seared across his skin, a wave of terror made his muscles clench. With a scream, he reared up onto his toes, desperately clawing at the wall for balance. It crashed at him again, and again, until his mouth was dry from retching and he lay writhing upon the cold, hard ground. Sharp rocks tore at his clothes and his skin.The tap tap of footsteps drew nearer. He curled into a ball, shielding his face with his arms.

“Pathetic,” she said. Something jabbed into his ribs, and he flinched.

“Stop! Leave him be!” said a familiar voice.

“Arthur?” whispered Merlin, scarcely able to believe his ears.

Miraculously, the pain lifted, and he peeled his hands away from his face.

A golden light suffused the cave, piercing the gloom. He did not know where from. Bathed in it, hair glowing like a halo, stood Arthur, both hands lightly resting upon the hilt of the sword, encased as it was in the thick, grey rock.

Nimueh stood before him. With a grim smile, she lifted her hands. She started to incant.

“Arthur! No!” Ignoring the agony that swept through him when he tried to move, Merlin crawled on hands and knees, desperate to halt the witch.

Arthur’s lips pursed into a thin line. He grabbed the handle of the sword, and pulled.

It came away as lightly as if he had been freeing it from a scabbard, gleaming with pale fire.

Light erupted from Nimueh’s fingertips.

“Arthur!” Merlin screamed.

A loud snarl filled the cave, and the witch plunged to the floor. A dark shape hovered over her. Blue webs of magic skittered from her hands. The witch struggled with the black creature.

Blinking back tears, Merlin peered at the struggle. But his eyes were filled with dust and tears. He couldn’t make out what sort of a being was battling the witch. Frustrated, he tried to rise. Agony gripped his limbs, and he groaned.

“I know you, bastet. You cannot harm me!” Nimueh cried. “No mere mortal beast can slay me!”

Bastet? The only bastet Merlin knew was Freya? Freya was here? But how? Merlin did not have time to ask. As he watched, Nimueh heaved Freya’s bulk from her as if she had been a kitten, and flung her across the cave where she lay beside Merlin, whimpering.

“Freya! No!” Heart in his mouth, Merlin lifted a hand, buried it in her fur. “Freya!”

“Now would be a good time, princeling,” said Freya’s familiar, mocking voice. Her pelt rumbled beneath Merlin’s fingers as she spoke. But his fingers came away wet.

“Freya,” he whispered, heart clenching.

Nimueh spun round, hands in the air as if ready to cast again. She came face to face with Arthur, sword raised.  

“If you kill me now, Pendragon,” she said, sneering, “your line will be cursed to the end of time. And you will be doomed.”

Without further hesitation, Arthur plunged the sword into Nimueh’s chest with a sickening thud.

“Curse you!” she whispered. Blood seeped onto the floor beneath her into a thick puddle. She sank to her knees. “I curse you  and your children, and your children’s children… “ her breath came in terrible, moist gasps now. “ with my final… breath… you will be… slain by your own…  brother…”

“That’s enough, witch,” said Arthur, calmly. “Your words are empty. For I have no brother, and will have no children.” Abruptly, he tugged the sword free, pushing her off it with his boot.

She slumped to the floor. Her howl of pain filled the cave. Merlin clutched his ears against the noise. But Arthur stood firm, golden and unmoving, as if in judgment.

“Morgana…” pleaded a distant voice on the edge of hearing.

But then it was gone, and the cavern flooded with sunlight.

 

 

 

 

 

Now that Nimueh had been slain, light streamed through the gap in the ceiling of the cave. The gap that Arthur had crept through earlier, under Nimueh’s shroud of enchantment. Time and water had carved wondrous shapes into the glistening rock.

Laying the sword down on the rock, Arthur stared at the place where Nimueh had fallen. She looked so small, so fragile, lying lifeless upon the bare rock. He reached out with two fingers to close her eyelids. He couldn’t bring himself to feel anything for her. Turning his back, he turned his eyes to Merlin, who was crouched over Freya.

“Merlin?” Heart in his mouth, with a few quick strides, he drew up to Merlin’s side. “Merlin, are you all right.”

“I’m fine,” said Merlin, shakily, looking up. His eyes were bright with tears. “I’m fine. But Freya…”

“Thank all the gods,” said Arthur, voice cracking a little. “And Freya?” He knelt, one hand on Freya’s flank. Her breath was coming quickly. Relief that Merlin was all right quickly turned to fear when he realised that her pelt was matted with blood. “Freya?”

“She fell on a pinnacle,” said Merlin, drawing in a shaky breath that turned into a sob. “We’re losing her.”

“But she can heal… the dragon…” Arthur’s voice trailed off as he realised that Merlin was shaking his head. “Can’t she?”

“I am mortally wounded, Arthur.” Freya’s voice sounded oddly gentle. “But my curse is lifting, look.”

As Arthur looked more closely, he saw that her wings were shrinking. Her pelt had thinned and her fangs had got smaller. Within a few minutes, the cat was gone. In its place lay a young girl, shivering beneath Merlin’s touch as he desperately incanted healing spells. But the gash in her side still oozed blood. A dark pool of it stained the rock. Her face was pinched, and her breath shallow.

“We have to take you back to Ealdor,” said Merlin, urgently, distraught. “This is beyond my skill, Freya…”

“It is beyond anyone’s skill.” Her eyes flickered closed. “Ah. It feels so good to be human again. But I am dying, and I know it.” Her chest rose and fell with a heavy, relentless rattle.

“Freya!” With gentle hands, Merlin caressed her face.  

“Thank you, Arthur, for slaying the witch. You have freed me. But the gods take a heavy payment for such debts.” Her breath gurgled and she coughed. “Please, Merlin. I must go to Avalon. Aithusa will bear me there.” She coughed. A smear of red appeared between her lips.

“Freya!” With a gentle thumb, Merlin pressed the blood away. Cupped her cheek with his shaking palm.

“Take… care… Aithusa…” she breathed, eyes imploring. “Avalon…” With a rattling exhale, she sighed. Her eyes glazed over, unfocussed.

“We will, I promise,” said Merlin. A sob wracked his shoulders. “I promise.”

Far above them, a great roar sounded. The grieving dragon’s frantic cries echoed through the chamber, making the walls shake. Stones and dust broke off, tapping to the floor around them. There was a distant boom, and the floor beneath them shivered.

“We have to move,” said Arthur, remembering how close he had been to being buried beneath a rockfall already today. Bending, he scooped Freya’s lifeless body into his arms. She was as light as a child. “Quickly, Merlin.”

Merlin gazed at him for a moment. The ground shook again, and a sudden crack appeared by his feet.

“Now, Merlin! Come on!” Alarmed, Arthur heaved Freya’s lifeless body over his shoulder, grimacing at the pain in his protesting muscles. “Come on! If we stay here we will die!”

Blinking rapidly, Merlin swallowed. When he took a step forward, Arthur breathed a sigh of relief.

“That’s it,” he said. “Come.” He reached out with his free hand.

“Wait!” said Merlin. “The sword!” He turned, and started to mutter some sort of spell.

“Leave it!” said Arthur. “There’s no time! Merlin!”

“I’ve nearly got it!” Merlin’s hand reached out. The sword started to fly towards him. Its blade flashed. But a sudden rumble threw Merlin to the floor. The crack by his feet widened.

With a deafening thunder, a huge area of the chasm simply disappeared. It fell into the depths of the mountain, taking Nimueh’s body. Within a moment she was gone, leaving only a gaping hole filled with swirling dust in her wake.

Mouth parting, Merlin finally grasped Arthur’s hand, and started to haul himself along what was left of the cave floor. But the floor dropped away beneath Merlin without warning.

Arthur clung on to his hand for dear life. Merlin’s body swung into a chasm, held only the hand that gripped Arthur’s

“Use your magic!” Arthur  roared. “Quickly!”

A moment later, Merlin’s eyes flashed gold, and the weight on Arthur’s hand lessened. Merlin barreled into him, knocking both Arthur and Freya’s body to the floor. A shimmering bubble surrounded them. Stones pinged off it as they floated.

“Got it! I got the sword!” said Merlin, panting.

“As if that was the most important thing, you clumsy oaf,” said Arthur, scrambling to his feet. Relief made his legs wobble, and he stumbled for a moment before picking Freya up again. She felt so light. .

“All right, clotpoll. Let’s get out of here.” Merlin grinned at him through his tears. “This shield is fine for pebbles but I wouldn’t like to try it with a whole mountain falling in.”

“Finally, he has the presence of mind to want to leave,” said Arthur, smiling despite himself.

Merlin clasped his shoulder, eyes suddenly very blue.

“I thought you were dead!” he said, biting his lip.

“I still might be, if we don’t get going soon,” replied Arthur. Warmth flooded him at Merlin’s touch, and he smiled, despite everything. “Idiot!”

“Prat.” Merlin grinned back, but then his smile faltered at a sudden boom, far below them. The ground shook, and pebbles skittered and hissed from the cavernous walls.

When they emerged onto the bare mountain top, a sea of swirling white fog lay beneath them. Far away, across the valley, another peak emerged, a jagged island.

Close by the chasm from which they crawled, Aithusa lay upon a wide, flat plateau, curled in woe, her snout beneath her forelegs. Giant tears squeezed out from behind her closed eyelids. They raised puffs of steam where they fell onto cold stone.

Gently, Arthur laid Freya’s still body next to her.

“Aithusa?” Merlin placed his hand on the white dragon’s flank, and bowed his head in grief. “I tried to save her. I’m so sorry.” A sob shook his shoulders.

After a moment of shared silence, Aithusa placed a questioning talon upon Freya’s body and regarded the two men with one open eye.

“Where is Kilgharrah?” said Merlin.

“Hunting.” The white dragon sniffed. Her shoulders heaved, and smoke bellowed from her nostrils, making Arthur gag from the stench.

“Hush, now.” Merlin draped his body over her back, and patted her hide. “She is at peace, little one.”

“She was my friend,” said Aithusa. With a shock, Arthur realised that she was sobbing. “She brought me forth from my egg. How can I carry on without her?”

“I know it’s hard, _cariad bach_.” Merlin rubbed at a patch of skin behind Aithusa’s neck, as if he was petting a cat. “But she would want you to carry on, to be strong and noble like her.”

“Part of my heart has been torn away.” Aithusa’s tail flicked with her agitation. “It’s my fault! I should never have responded to the summons. No! It’s his fault.” She glared at Arthur. Hissing, she drew up onto her haunches. She sucked in a deep breath. Angling her head back, she blinked at the sky and turned her gaze back to Arthur, deadly and intent. “I will have his liver—”

“No, Aithusa, No!” Merlin stepped in front of Arthur and held out a hand as he spoke. “It is not his fault! Freya chose to come and rescue me, remember? Besides which, if you hurt Arthur then Hunith will be most displeased. Now, come. Let us be friends. It is what she would have wanted.”

The dragon’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Arthur thought that she would roast them both where they stood. But eventually she dropped back down onto all fours and let her snout settle back onto her forepaws.

“There now, that’s better.” Merlin scratched her forehead between her eyes. “You are so brave. Freya would be so proud of you.”

“But what shall I do?” She tilted her head into his caress. “I feel so alone.”

“I know, _cariad bach_.” Merlin sighed. “It is hard for one so young as you to lose your friend. But have courage, you are not alone. All Ealdor will join you in grief, when we send Freya’s body to the Goddess at Avalon. You will see that you have other friends. Mmm? But now, I have a very important role for you to play.”

“Huh.” Aithusa’s breath when she huffed was like a gust of hellfire. “What might that be?”

Thinking it best to stay out of the way, Arthur scrabbled hastily to one side.

“Can you take her body to Avalon, and stand vigil by her side?” said Merlin, quietly, voice cracking a little. “We will wait in the camp, below, for Kilgharrah to return from his hunt. And then we will join you there.”

Nodding, the dragon sighed again

 

 

 

 

 

It was only after the dragon had gone, leaving them alone upon the mountaintop, that Arthur’s ordeal began to catch up with him. His limbs ached from sheer fatigue, and his stomach felt hollow, as if he had not eaten for weeks. The sun was low in the sky, its dim light reflecting orange off the dense cloudtops beneath them.

“We must get down from here,” said Merlin. He yawned. “Night will fall soon. But Goddess, I’m weary.”

“Aye,” said Arthur, wincing as he dropped to the floor beside Merlin. Their frantic escape from the mountain had left his muscles sore and they protested every movement. “Best to get down now, before the air cools. If we can make it to the clearing where you left me, I can make a fire there. Maybe even catch some fish in the stream.” Suddenly, he was famished.

“Typical warrior, always thinking of his stomach,” said Merlin. His face looked strained, despite the bantering tone of his voice.

“Come on.” Arthur struggled to his feet and held out a hand. “It’s downhill all the way.”

Merlin reached up to him and gripped his wrist.

“Thank you,” he said, and his eyes shone. “For coming for me. For… for everything.”

“I was in your debt.” Arthur heaved, groaning, and Merlin stumbled to his feet, so that they stood face to face, hands still grasped together.

“Is that it?” said Merlin, his breath in soft clouds caressing Arthur’s cheek.

“No,” admitted Arthur. “I thought I’d lost you. And I couldn’t bear that. I know we’ve only known each other for a short time, but… there’s something about you, Merlin.”

Merlin’s lips were soft against his, his body straight and hard. They pressed together with a hunger born of desperation and loss.

After what seemed like only a moment, but must have been longer, for the sun was now upon the horizon, and the cloudtops and jagged mountains were bathed in a fiery glow, Arthur broke the kiss, panting.

“I’m sorry I left you, ” said Merlin, eyes dipping to Arthur’s lips, head tilting forward as if to fit their mouths together again. “I thought you were dead.”

Arthur shook his head and placed a single finger upon Merlin’s lips.

“Wait,” he said. “Just… When I woke up and you weren’t there…  I don’t really want to keep a clumsy, sarcastic oaf by my side always but… yes. Actually, I do. That’s what I want.”

“I don’t know why I want to stick around a pompous, privileged prat like you,” replied Merlin, eyes shining. “But I do. I won’t leave you again. I will stay at your side or die.”

“And I yours.”

Bathed by the dying rays of the sun, they kissed promises into each others’ mouths.

 

 

 

 

 

Night fell slowly, and embers of the vanished sun still glowed along the horizon when at last they picked their way, shivering, across into the clearing where Freya had healed Arthur. The trees loomed over them, bare branches whispering in the breeze. Merlin’s shirt was still there, where he had placed it earlier under Arthur’s head. He pulled it on, but the horn was nowhere to be seen.

Merlin built a meagre fire, and fashioned a bowl from birch bark. Filling it with water, he dropped hot stones from the fire into the bowl, until the water boiled. He mixed it with some bramble leaves and shrivelled berries that they’d gathered on their way down the mountain to make a broth. The broth was inadequate, but the heat warmed them and cast light upon the bare trees even as the darkness engulfed them and sapped all the warmth from the air.

Arthur had gone for days without eating before, on campaigns and hunts during the winter months, but it had been a long and exhausting day. His stomach twisted from the hunger. He was famished.

“Hush!” said Merlin, shivering, pressed up alongside him for warmth on the log where they sat. He tore a piece of bark off a stick, and idly fed it to the fire, which crackled and flashed, sending a burst of orange sparks up into the sky.

“I didn’t say anything!” protested Arthur. He shifted his weight on the log and wiggled his toes within his boots, wondering if he would ever feel them properly again.

“No, but your stomach did!” said Merlin. He grinned, teeth flashing. “And it’s making me feel hungry.”

Arthur huffed out a laugh, his breath pale in the firelight. He went back to sliding a whetstone along the blade of the greatsword in an insistent, singing rhythm.

“It’s yours, now, you know,” Merlin said in a low voice, after a while.

“What?”

“The sword. It has chosen you. None other can carry it. Remember what the wisewoman said?”

“Alice?” Feigning nonchalance, Arthur felt warmth burst behind his sternum. “It is a fine blade. But Morgana… she is the crown princess. She will be Queen, and your bride. Surely… ”

“I want you to have it,” said Merlin. “You are Albion’s champion, now. And mine. I cannot in all conscience marry your sister. Not when I… not when you... ” His breath hitched a little as their eyes met. “Arthur, I know you are to be wed to the mastersmith, but... I just can’t.” He shook his head.

“Merlin.” Breathing heavily, Arthur struggled to process the way that Merlin’s words made his heart leap in his chest.

Merlin dropped his gaze, and the branch he was holding snapped in two.

Letting the sword fall to the earth with a thud, Arthur stood, grasping, Merlin’s shoulders with both hands. Merlin looked up, biting his lip. His eyes shimmered in the firelight.

“Merlin, I….” Arthur’s heart clenched. Casting around for the words, he glanced up at the heavens. A shooting star grazed the sky, leaving a faint arc on his retina, and he took it as a blessing.  “As if I could marry her now. Idiot.”

Leaning forward, Arthur carefully pressed their lips together, heads tilted, lips gentle at first and then more searching. Maybe it was the lack of food and sleep that was making him feel lightheaded. But the giddiness that passed over him made him shiver, knees buckling, so he knelt , one knee at a time hitting the cold earth.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s arms clutched at him, hauling him in, heat seeping through his clothes so that he groaned in pleasure. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” said Arthur, to dispel the tone of worry in Merlin’s voice. “Just need to feel you.”Burying his face in Merlin’s neck, he breathed in a mingled scent of sweat and soot and something indefinable, with an almost metallic tang, that might have been magic, he wasn’t sure. A dizzy, reckless feeling swept over him, as his hands sought the burning heat of Merlin’s skin, his lips sought the rough, unshaved stubble that peppered Merlin’s throat. Eagerly he sucked a mark there, and another, salty and sweaty with the tang of adrenaline and effort. A dark coil of need tightened in Arthur’s belly.

“Your hands are freezing.” Strong fingers dug into the flesh of Arthur’s thighs. Merlin’s weight shifted. Suddenly Arthur was sitting on the log, with Merlin straddling him. Merlin’s breath blew hot against Arthur’s face and he ground down against Arthur’s crotch, hips rocking forward and back in a relentless rhythm that made Arthur’s breath stutter and his hands scrabble for purchase. Merlin’s heavy warmth against him filled him with longing, pulling all his focus into that sweetness and heat.

Abruptly, Arthur lost his balance, falling with a thud onto his back on the earth behind the log. Merlin followed him down, sucking air through his teeth as he landed heavily on Arthur’s chest.

“Oops,” said Arthur. Laughter bubbled up in his chest.

“Are you all right?” said Merlin. His worried expression just made Arthur laugh even more.

“I’m fine.” Arthur said, his voice a low growl as he grasped Merlin’s arse and pulled him in closer again, “or I will be as long as you don’t stop.”

“You like that?” Merlin rocked down, drawing a shallow gasp from Arthur as he resumed his steady rhythm.

Mouth lolling open in sheer pleasure, Arthur settled his hands on Merlin’s tensing thighs, grasping at them and canting his own hips up. Merlin’s eyes flashed golden, and he lifted his head, so that Arthur could see the long line of his neck outlined against the stars. An exquisite tension surged through him, making him cry out.

They lay in each others’ arms by the glow of the embers, etching vows into each other’s flesh with their fingertips and lips.   

 

 

 

 

 

“Here! Stop here! They have been here, I can feel it.” Morgana held up a hand, and the party came to an abrupt halt. “There is a sense of magic, here. It makes my skin crawl.”

“Are you sure, my lady?” Gwen couldn’t see or feel anything unusual. She pulled on the reins of her horse, staring around herself for clues.They were in a clearing, bare-twigged branches looming over them, fat leaf-buds hinting at the imminence of Spring. The vegetation around and about had been flattened here and there, as if trampled under a hundred feet, or the bulk of some great beast.

“Are you sure?” echoed Morgause.

“Completely certain.” Morgana’s breath came in great gasps and her green eyes seemed dark and fearful as she sent darting glances into the trees. “Can’t you feel it? Dragons have been here. It stinks of them.”

Gwen sniffed, but all she could smell was the stench of horse mingled with unwashed men. The knights of Camelot dismounted behind her, swords unsheathed. Gwen followed suit with as much grace as she could muster, holding the reins of the old chestnut mare in one hand, and soothing her steaming flank with the other.

“Morgana? Are you sure this is the place?” she said, handing her reins to Sir Elyan and walking over to Morgana’s mount, adding. “My lady? Are you all right?”

Even after the exertion of their ride, Morgana’s face was paler than usual, and she trembled, whether from the cold or anxiety, Gwen could not tell. .

“This is the place.” Morgana drew her dark green mantle around her. Her gelding shifted his feet beneath her and his ears pricked forward, as if Morgana’s tension had been conveyed to him.

“Come.” Gwen held out her hands, offering reassurance, so that Morgana could descend into her arms. “Here. It’s just a forest. There’s nothing here to be scared of.”

“Don’t you feel it?” said Morgana. Her slender frame trembled in Gwen’s embrace. “This place is full of ancient magic. It is watching us.”

“Hush.” Gwen let her fingers drift through Morgana’s hair. So silky and smooth to her touch. “It’s all right. Morgause is with us. She will protect us.”

She looked up and locked eyes with Morgause, who nodded, and placed a hand on Morgana’s back.

“I feel something, too, Morgana,” said Morgause. “But whatever it is has left this place. Come, let us divine what has happened here.”

Gwen let out a relieved sigh as Morgana nodded and allowed Morgause to lead her around the clearing. The knights bustled about, setting up camp.

“Hey, there’s an old camp fire here!” said Sir Gwaine, calling them over. “It’s still warm. Last night’s, I would say. Whoever made it is not far from here.”

“Unless they left on dragonback,” said Morgana, lifting her chin.

“I very much doubt that.” Sir Elyan called from the flattened area of bracken on one side of the clearing. “There is blood here. Lots of it. Something was mortally wounded here. Something big. Something bad happened in this place, I can feel it.”

“But whatever it is, it’s not here any more,” said Gwen.

“Gwen is right.” Morgana sighed. “Set up camp here. Come, Morgause. We will debate this and leave in the morning.”

The camp fell silent, save for the occasional crack of a branch while the knights worked to set up stakes to secure the area. Together, they erected a sturdy tent.

As the knights worked, Gwen walked round the perimeter of the clearing, searching for something, she wasn’t sure what. Some clue, perhaps, that the men the sought had been here, that they were still alive. Suddenly she glimpsed something beneath a twisted, brown bracken branch, glinting in the sun. Frowning, she walked to it in quick steps, lifting the frond away and grasping something that lay in the thick mud beneath. She pulled it out,heart pounding, and rubbed away the dirt with the sleeve of her gown.  

“My lady,” she said, anxiety clutching at her chest. “Come quickly! I have found…” she couldn’t finish the sentence, and a great sob heaved at her chest. “Morgana?”

“What is it, Gwen?” Morgana ran to clutch at her elbow, and then she cried out when she saw what Gwen was holding. “Oh, dear Goddess, no! Arthur, what have you done?”

“What happened here?” Tears blurred Gwen’s eyes. She turned over the object, over and over.

It was the great, dragon-summoning horn that Morgana had given to Merlin.

“Something bad must have happened for them to discard this treasure,” Gwen added. Her voice broke as she spoke. “And my heart aches to see your gift so casually tossed into the mud.”

“That is the least of our concerns, dear Gwen.” Frowning, Morgana turned to the rest of the assembled party, who were gathering around them, waiting for her command, faces lined with worry.

“Where is Arthur?” said Sir Leon, most loyal of Arthur’s close knit group of knights. “What happened here? Is he enchanted? We must find him!”

“In the morning,” said Morgana. “Night is falling. We must rest the horses. Sir Leon, set watch upon this place and wake me if anything comes. Sir Gwaine, examine this area thoroughly and report to me in one candle-mark. Morgause, Gwen, confer with me in my tent.”

The round tent was lined with furs. Morgause whispered a spell that warmed the air, and Gwen was comfortable enough sitting on a soft pelt atop the straw. They talked for hours, but reached no resolution. Eventually Morgause left to set watch, and Gwen was left alone with Morgana.

“What about the horn?” she said, softly, fingering the golden dragon that adorned its bronze metalwork. “It’s so pretty. Who designed it? I would love to meet them...” As she gazed at it, the metalwork shone in the candlelight, dazzling her with its workmanship. Its design, pregnant with possibilities, thrilled her somehow.  Think of the elegant goldware she could fashion with such a motif, the goblets and plates, the fine cutlery and sconses. The light that they would throw around a huge space like the Great Hall of Camelot.  

“Dragons.” Morgana shuddered. “Guard it for me, dear Gwen. I want you to have it.”

“Me?” Gwen stared at her. “But I’m just a mastersmith, I mean I don’t… it’s meant to be for your betrothed. And I know you’re afr… I mean you don’t like dragons. But, even so, I would hate to come between you. Or rather,” she felt her cheeks heat as she spoke, but couldn’t stop herself. “I wouldn’t dare to presume, of course, that’s not what I meant. Not that you’re not beautiful, because you are, you’re the most beautiful person I have ever met, and I’d love to be your betrothed, but you’d never want someone like me? I’m just…” she trailed off, staring at Morgana’s lips which were twisting up into a delighted smile. She punched Morgana on the arm, but gently. She didn’t want to hurt her. “Oh, honestly, do stop me, Morgana! Please!”

“Whyever would I want to do that?” Laughing, Morgana twisted one of Gwen’s curls between her fingers. “Besides, however I might feel about dragons, it’s a precious object, and I’d rather give it to you than some lump of a man who will just drop it at the first sign of trouble.”

“But what if they’re hurt?” Gwen knew she should be worried, but despite herself, she couldn’t help the bubble of hope that bloomed in her chest as Morgana cupped her cheek. “What if something awful happened?”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Morgana. Her eyes were round and huge in the dim light of the tent. “For now, let’s get some sleep..”

“But how can we follow them?” said Gwen, frowning. “We have to find them.” Biting her lip, Gwen turned the horn over. Its mouthpiece was smooth and shiny. The germ of an idea was forming in her head.

“Gwen?” Morgana sat upon the blankets and counterpane that had been laid out for them to sleep on. “Come on. It is cold. We can work it out when we have slept.”

The cool air pebbled Gwen’s skin. Nodding, she laid aside the horn and followed Morgana. But she lay awake for a long time, as Morgana twisted and turned into a fretful doze at her side

 

 

 

 

 

Morgana awoke with a start, heart pounding, a silent scream on her lips.

“My lady?” Gwen’s soft voice was quiet in her ear. “Are you all right.”

“I’m fine, Gwen,” said Morgana, sweat cooling on her brow. “It was just a dream, that’s all.” But her instincts told her otherwise. A stench of prophecy tainted her nostrils, and the ache in her gut was the one that always accompanied the most potent of her visions. Her stomach heaved. Hastily, she cast aside the counterpane that covered her. Stumbling, feet bare on the naked earth, she half walked, half crawled to the gash in the tent wall that marked its entrance. A great convulsion clawed at her, and she put a hand to her mouth, retching, even as she fumbled to untie the knot in the tent strings with the other.

“Here, my lady, let me help you!” Gwen’s presence was warm alongside her.

Blindly tumbling through the gap in the canvas, Morgana fell to her knees and heaved, spewing the remains of her meagre supper violently onto the ground outside.

Gwen’s hand described soothing circles on her back.

After a while, Morgana took in a great breath, and looked around the clearing through swimming eyes. By the dwindling firelight, a few curious faces were turned her way, but they looked away when they saw her watching them.

“Dragons again?” said Gwen, sympathetic voice quiet in her ear.

Morgana nodded.

“I know they are fierce creatures,” said Gwen, “but I wish that thoughts of them didn’t hurt you so. Maybe confronting your fears will stop them from making you so sick?”

“It’s the great dragon,” whispered Morgana, with a shudder. “Merlin is by the lake, he is gazing out at the burning boat. Where is Arthur? It’s a pyre! Arthur? Arthur? The dragon looks at me and then there’s just the fire - it burns, so.” Shoulders heaving, Morgana relived the dream, the cold drug of prophecy sending ice into her veins, making her shake. “I can’t bear it! Arthur?” Her voice rose, close to a scream again. “The dragontamers have betrayed us all!”

“Hush!” You have had a horrible ordeal,” said Gwen. Something warm was cast across Morgana’s bare shoulders, easing the way that she shivered. “Come, now, silly. I mean, I don’t think you’re silly, of course not. But I think you are just projecting your fears, understandable though they are, on the dragon. And it’s just that, are you sure it’s really the dragon who you need to fear? Does that make sense, really? When it is really the witch who threatened you, the witch that we must find and neutralise. My lady? Morgana?”

“I know, I’m just worried,” said Morgana. “Arthur’s always been getting into trouble, ever since he was small. And I know he’s a man now, and strong, but this seemed so real. And what is Merlin’s role in all this?”

“Merlin seems like an honourable man,” said Gwen, firmly, giving Morgana’s shoulder a rub. “I mean, he’s a skinny thing, and, not that I didn’t think he was handsome, of course, he was sweet. Although his ears… And he’s, well a bit scrawny! But he saved you from the witch, remember? At the flyting? And he was very clever, but they seemed to be... I mean they laughed and smiled, teasing each other like old friends. You said you liked him, then. And at the betrothal, do you remember how Merlin called the dragon and flew off on him to save Arthur? I can’t imagine that he would ever harm Arthur.”

“I know. I know. Thank you Gwen.” Despite herself, a ghost of a smile tilted Morgana’s lips up at Gwen’s muddled speech. Gwen had this amazing knack of talking nonsense in such a way that it hid a kernel of wisdom. Lots of people only ever heard the prattle, and never paid heed to the nugget of insight that it held. Morgana didn’t intend to make that mistake.

“My lady?” Gwen was still talking. “You are shivering. Come back inside the tent.”

Morgana allowed herself to be led back to the blanket where she and Gwen had been sleeping, and tried not to let her trembling keep Gwen awake through the long night. But for her, the dream had killed any notion of getting rest. When she closed her eyes, the lonely figure in the fire still burned against her retina. But she must have got some sleep, because the next thing she knew she was cold, and grey dawn light was filtering through the tent walls, and the counterpane was cold.

“Gwen?” She turned back the covers. The tent was empty. She frowned, wondering where Gwen had gone, but then suspicion flooded her veins like ice. “Gwen?” Her agitation grew. She scrabbled about for her boots, pulling them on, and hastily gathered and clasped her mantle. For Gwen had left the tent, yes. But more worryingly, the horn was gone. “Gwen! No!” She ducked through the gap in the tent, pulse surging, just as a high, clear note sounded.

“Nooo!” screamed Morgana, panic flooding through her belly.

Gwen stood outside the tent, the horn still raised to her lips.

Morgana ran to stop her, but it was too late. The note still echoed around the mountains, an eerie sound that mocked her and called her coward.

Terror gripped her.

The dragons were coming!

 

 

 

 

 

 

The great lake was shrouded in mist. They could barely see a dragonwing’s length out over the water. The surface of the lake shimmered, trembling as if in grief. Aithusa’s scales , normally iridescent, were a dull, pale grey, sombre like the pall of fog that blanketed the lake. Far away, a curlew called, its cry swallowed by the dank air.

When he looked at Freya’s still form, laid out with as much honour as they could manage upon a makeshift pallet, Merlin understood.

“We must build a pyre,” said Arthur. “To honour the dead and send her spirit back to Avalon over the water.”

“Aye.” Merlin sighed. He bowed his head in silent supplication, but the Goddess did not reply to his prayer.

“Come.” Arthur tugged at his hand. “It’s no use just standing around. Her spirit won’t wait forever.”

“I know that.” Merlin shook his head. “It’s just - this was never meant to happen! And what will my mother think? And my father!”

“And mine.” Arthur looked over to where Kilgharrah was licking his claws, like a cat.

Just then, Aithusa lifted her snout off her forepaws, ears pricking like a horse’s. She exchanged a look with Kilgharrah, and as one they launched themselves into the air, raising choking dust that made Merlin and Arthur duck for cover. By the time the two men looked up again, the dragons were gone, swallowed up by the thick fog.

“What’s going on?” said Arthur.

“I don’t know?” said Merlin, perplexed. Closing his eyes, he reached out with his mind, groping to find Kilgharrah.

 _“Kilgharrah?”_ he whispered, in the depths of his mind.

 _“We have been called, young warlock,”_ was the faint reply.

 _“What? Who has called you?”_ Frustrated, Merlin buried his hands in his hair. _“Who can hold that much power over you? Where are  you called to? How long will you be there? Answer me, Kilgharrah! Kilgharrah? Aithusa?”_

But all that he could hear was a far-away rumble of dragonish laughter, and the quiet lap-lap of the lake against the shore. Sighing, they turned, and by mutual agreement headed off into the forest to gather wood for the pyre.

 

 

 

 

 

Morgana was furious with Gwen at first. Jabbing the invisibility ring onto her finger, she stalked off into the forest, ignoring the cries of Gwen and the knights as they searched for her. Grabbing a stick, she lashed out at the undergrowth, until she had worked all her frustration out on some sorry-looking brambles. Then she sat, despondent, upon a log. She tugged off the ring, staring at it through bleary eyes for a moment before slipping it safely back into a pocket hidden inside her bodice.

“My lady?”

She looked  up at Sir Leon who was approaching her with some wariness.

“Go away.” She tossed a stick towards him, but he ducked it easily and stood there, wringing his hands.  

“The lady Guinevere wishes to speak with you,” said Sir Leon.

“Tell her I am not talking to her.” Morgana knew she was being ridiculous, but she carried on anyway. “It’s not my fault that she’s too much of a coward to come and get me herself.”

“But, my lady--” said Leon

“It’s all right, Leon,” said Gwen, stepping out from behind him. She had no right to be so calm! “You may leave us, now.”

“But--” Leon said again.

“It’s all right!” Gwen dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

“Very well,” said Sir Leon, eyeing Morgana. “But I’ll wait over here, just in case… I mean, if you need me.” With a nod, he turned and left them alone.

Morgana couldn’t help wondering when Gwen, dear meek Gwen, had acquired such an air of authority. Perhaps it had been there all along, for those with eyes to see. So many people underestimated Gwen. The knights were so protective of her. But underneath, she had nerves of steel. Not for the first time, Morgana saw what a weapon Gwen’s seeming vulnerability would be in the intricate machinations of court.

“Forgive me,” said Gwen, now. “I felt that we had to act, and there was only one course open to us. We have to find your brother. The dragons can take us to him.”

“You should have asked me,” said Morgana, standing up and glaring at Gwen with all the intensity that she could muster. “You should have warned me!”

“I could not do that,” said Gwen, unyielding in the face of Morgana’s anger. “You would have stopped me, anyway. I did what we had to do.”

“How dare you?” shrieked Morgana, sensing that she was losing control of the situation, but not sure how to remedy that. She stepped up to Gwen and lifted her hand as if to strike her.

“Go on!” said Gwen, defiant, tilting her chin up. “Hit me, if you must. But quickly. The dragons will be here.” Her eyes were wet, and a tear spilled onto her cheek, but still she did not step back or flinch.

“I… I…” Morgana lowered her hand. Her throat worked as she struggled with herself, terror mingling with remorse. “I’m sorry, Gwen. I could never hit you.” She collapsed back down onto the log, her skirts fanning out around her as she sobbed into her hands. “But you didn’t see what I saw.”

“It will be all right, Morgana, I know it.” Gwen’s arm crept around her shoulders. “It will be all right. Hush.”

Just then, a breeze shivered the trees, making the branches whisper. A flock of ravens cawed in alarm, their wings making a sudden clatter as they rose from the branches, squawking. At the same time, an uproar started over towards the clearing. Men's voices were raised. The ring of steel sounded, as if swords were drawn from scabbards. Sir Leon burst through the trees, his cloak billowing out behind him in a sudden breeze.

“My ladies, come quickly,” he said, beckoning. But they needed no second telling.

Already on her feet, Gwen lifted her skirts free of the undergrowth and darted towards the gap in the trees where Leon had emerged. Heart racing, mouth suddenly dry, Morgana reluctantly followed.  

When Morgana reached the clearing, the scene before her nearly stopped her heart. The knights of Camelot stood arrayed before a great creature, the living embodiment of her worst nightmares. It reared up over them, wings outstretched and nostrils flaring. Black smoke billowed from its snout. It roared, so loudly that the very ground shook, sending a vile stench spewing over the clearing.

"Who dares to summon me with the Horn of Brebeth?" it cried, magnificent in its outrage.

By itself, this vision was terrifying enough. The deafening sound of the dragon's roar had Morgana flinching and covering her ears with her hands. But it was Gwen, dear brave Gwen, who scared her the most.

Striding up to the huge beast, she pushed through the heavily armed knights and stood between them and the dragon, arms akimbo.

"Stop that, you great bully," she admonished, her voice high and clear against the deep, threatening rumble of the dragon's. "I was the one who summoned you, and we are friends, so there's no need to go throwing your weight around. Besides, this little chap here is upset."

It was only then that Morgana realised that another, much smaller dragon shared the clearing with them. Its scales were translucent, almost pearl-like in the way that they shimmered in the spring sunlight. It was this dragon that Gwen directed her attention to, ignoring the posturing of the enormous beast that accompanied it. Gwen reached up to place her hand behind its head, scratching behind its ears.

"Gwen! No!" Morgana shrieked, rushing forward, all fear forgotten in her haste to protect Gwen from the vile creatures.

But Gwen didn't answer. Instead she muttered soothing words into the white dragon''s ears, scratching behind them. To Morgana's astonishment, she realised that it was pressing its head into Gwen's hand, making a tiny growling sound that might even have signified contentment.

"Aww, look," said Gwen, smiling. "He’s only a baby! Isn't he cute?"

" _She_ is not cute," growled the great dragon, settling back onto a sapling that snapped beneath its bulk. "She is the dragonling Aithusa, and you should treat her with more respect. She could fry you to charcoal with a single breath."

"She wouldn't do that, would you my sweet?" crooned Gwen. "Lower your swords, you silly knights. The dragons are our friends and allies, and I won't have you harm them in some sort of a quest to prove your manliness. I mean, not that I think you're unmanly! Of course! You're all, you know, very. Virile. I mean… Not that I’d know, of course."

The great dragon made a strange sort of wheezing snorting noise that Morgana, with shock, identified as laughter. If she hadn't been so terrified, she would have laughed at Gwen's babbling herself. But really, of all the things that she wasn't expecting to happen today, sharing a joke with the great dragon at her friend's expense was probably the strangest. On the edge of hysteria, she started to echo its laughter.

But when it turned its huge, slitted eyes upon her, her laughter stopped in her throat, and her legs lost all strength. Trembling she sank to the floor.

"Lady Morgana Pendragon," it said, mirroring her stance by bending its forelegs to her.

Was the dragon bowing to her? She swallowed. She'd been wrong. Being bowed to by a great dragon was definitely the oddest thing that had happened that morning.

"What have you done to my brother?" she said, lifting her chin. "Are you in league with the witch? Friend or no, I will have your head if you have harmed him."

"Foolish child." The beast rumbled its displeasure. The sound rattled her ribs and set her teeth on edge. "The dragons have healed your brother, and helped him to defeat the witch, but suffered a grave loss as a consequence."

The knights around them started to lower their swords, and Morgana swallowed, thinking through the implications of this statement. What if the dragon was lying? What if it sought to disarm them for its own ends, or as part of some complicated conspiracy? She didn’t trust it, not after what she’d seen. She was about to say as much, but Gwen spoke first.

"I... I am sorry for your loss," she said, frowning at Morgana, her arms round Aithusa's neck. "Can you take us to him?" Trust kind-hearted Gwen to think the best of the creatures, and seek to appease them with soft words. But it seemed to be working, for Aithusa lifted a lazy eyelid, then flicked it closed again as Gwen scratched vigorously behind her ears.  

"Of course," said the great dragon, eyes reduced to mere slits. Morgana wouldn't trust it an inch. "But who of you is brave enough to fly with the dragons? Choose quickly."

"I am," said Gwen.

"No!" screamed Morgana at the same time. "Never! Don’t trust them, Gwen! It’s a trap!"

"Please yourself," said Gwen, smiling.  How dare she smile at a time like this? Dimples appeared in her cheeks and she cocked her head on one side. "Come with me if you dare!"

"Gwen!" Backed into an impossible position, Morgana stamped her foot in sudden fury. "Don’t you dare! I forbid it!"

“My lady!” Sir Elyan stepped forward. “Don’t you think it would be wiser to wait?”

“No!” Gwen hitched up her skirts, and placed one boot carefully upon Aithusa's foreleg. She pushed herself up, holding tight to the white dragon's neck. “The tide of events is taking us to Avalon, can’t you feel it?”

“Don’t go, Gwen,” pleaded Morgana.

“Won’t you come with me? Please.” said Gwen. Her eyes were very dark and sad.

“No.” Morgana’s mouth set in a bitter line. “I won’t.”

“So be it.” Sombrely, Gwen  patted Aithusa’s neck. The white dragon rose onto its hindlegs, wings beating, raising dried leaves and dust from the floor, and flapped its wings. Within a minute or two, they were gone.

“Gwen!” Morgana screamed, heart banging against her ribs as if it was trying to escape. “Gwen!” Tears spilled over her cheeks. She must have looked an absolute fright, but she didn’t care. “Come back here! How dare you! Gwen!”

The great dragon lay still , examining its claws while she raged.

“My lady Pendragon,” it drawled, when she stopped to draw breath. It held out one foreleg in clear invitation. “It seems that you have unfinished business with the mastersmith. And as for me, well I am about to go back to Avalon, where your brother is waiting. Might I suggest that you could accompany me and harangue your friend further there?”

“Never!” she yelled, her throat tight and hoarse, but knowing deep down that her defiance hid both fear and acceptance of her fate.

“Ahem!” Behind her, a cough interrupted her rant. “My lady, perhaps it might--”

“Shut up, Leon,” she snapped, decision already made.

“But--”

“But, what?”

Exasperated, Morgana clambered onto the great dragon’s extended foreleg, holding tight to its scales and ridges. To her surprise, it was warm to the touch, and not slimy at all. Swallowing down her misgivings, she clung to a deep ridge upon its back.

It jerked to its feet, making her gasp, and raised its wings.

“Go back to Camelot, all of you,” she cried, willing her voice not to shake. “And inform the Queen. I am going to Avalon.”

But their reply was lost in the turbulence of a dragon’s beating wings, so loud that they almost drowned out the terrified thud-thud of her heart.

 

 

 

 

 

“Come on!” said Arthur, staggering under the weight of his stack of branches. “This pyre won’t build itself, you know.”

But Merlin stood stock still, gazing out into the swirling mists that had gathered over the lake.

“Merlin?” Dumping his pile of wood, Arthur stalked up to his companion, exasperated. “Hey, lazybones!”

“Hush!” Merlin put his hand to his lips, frowning. “Can you hear it?”

“Hear what?” Arms akimbo, Arthur glared. “Certainly not your breath, heavy from exertion, because you haven’t been doing anything.” He gave Merlin’s arm a friendly thump.

“Ow!” Turning to him with an indignant yelp, Merlin shoved him. “How was that meant to help anything?”

“Well at least I got your attention,” said Arthur, contrite. He gave Merlin’s arm a vigorous rub where he had struck it. Back in Camelot, the knights always responded well to his friendly thumps. Clearly with Merlin he was going to have to rethink some of the ways that he showed casual affection. “Something’s bothering you, isn’t it? I can tell.”

“What, apart from my childhood friend dying, you mean?” Merlin’s mouth took a downward turn.

“Is that what this is about?” Trying to look sympathetic, Arthur carried on rubbing. At least Merlin hadn’t objected to that, yet.

“No.” Merlin sighed. “I heard voices, whispering. I couldn’t work out what they were saying. And then you interrupted them with your Prince Charming act, so I guess I’ll never know. No! Wait!” He held up an admonishing hand. “I hear them again. There!” Merlin whirled around. “Do you hear them? _Mîn dohtor, mîn hreðer,_ they are saying. It is a lament.”

Arthur frowned. All he could make out was the lap-lap of the waters against the stony beach where they stood, and the gentle murmur of the breeze in the trees. He opened his mouth to say so but then thought better of it.

“This is a sacred place,” said Merlin, who was watching him now. “I can feel it. The Sidhe are speaking to us through the trees and the breeze. There is a presence here. It welcomes us.”

“Oh. Good?” said Arthur.

“You’re such a knight.” At last, Merlin flashed him a wan smile. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Well, how about this for a suggestion?” said Arthur. “Help me to finish building this pyre?”

He stalked back towards the forest, beckoning Merlin to follow. From his experience of cleaning up battlefields and the like, the activity would keep Merlin from brooding too much. His eyes settled on a large log fallen oak branch, recent windfall by the look of it, that would serve, appropriately cut, as a pallet. He wished he had his woodcutting and carpentry tools, but flints from the beach, his whittling knife, his strength, his sword and some sturdy sticks would have to do.

“Grab this will you,” he said, signalling to Merlin that he should take one end of the branch. “Hold it up,” he added, panting. He kept up a rolling banter throughout, keeping an anxious eye on Merlin to make sure that he didn’t start overanalysing things.  “I know you’re only a beanpole, but there’s no need to make me do all the work.”

“I’m carrying at least half of its weight, clotpoll!” objected Merlin.

At that moment, the bough that Arthur was holding snapped with a loud click. He fumbled to stop it from falling onto his foot.

Merlin waved his hand, and his eyes flashed gold. The branch floated gently over to their camp on the beach.

“Why didn’t you do that before?” said Arthur. He swallowed, refusing to be impressed like a wide-eyed ingenue. “Idiot!” All right. He was impressed.

“Wouldn’t want you getting complacent, now, would we?” said Merlin. “Besides which, with the amount of banqueting you have to do, I reckon the exercise is good for you.”  

“What are you insinuating?” Arthur glared at him.

“Nothing?” Merlin flashed him a cheeky grin.

Soon, the pile of flammable logs was high. Arthur fashioned a coracle from sturdy hazel canes, lashed together with twine that Merlin made out of bark. Together, they manoeuvred the pallet onto it, with Freya’s body still lying on top. They were panting from the exertion by the time that they had finished, their breath raising twin puffs of cloud as they laboured.

“Merlin, just a couple more load of logs will be enough, I think.” Arthur picked up another armful of logs, and carefully placed them along the gunwales of the coracle. “Merlin?”

But Merlin was staring at the sky, frowning.

Arthur opened his mouth to say something about how lazy Merlin was, but seeing something in Merlin’s stance, he closed it again.

“They’re coming,” said Merlin. “The dragons. And they’ve got company.”

“Kilgharrah?” said Arthur. “And Aithusa? They’re coming back?”

“Not just them,” Merlin said, smiling wanly. “All of them. They’re all coming. Freya… she was much beloved.” His voice cracked a little and his lip trembled as he spoke.

Arthur grasped his arm firmly and pulled him in close. Merlin’s shoulders shook beneath his fingers..

“Erm,” said Arthur, unsure what to do with his hands, and resorting to a sort of awkward, patting motion. “There, it’s all right. Um.”

“Just hold on to me, prat,” said Merlin, in a muffled voice from somewhere near Arthur’s shoulder.

After a few minutes, Merlin pulled away, dashing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Don’t mention it.” Arthur coughed. Picking up a stone from the beach, he sat on a rock, drawing the stone along the already pristine blade of his sword. He pretended not to watch while Merlin washed his face and the back of his neck in the water from the lake.

“How many?” Frowning, Arthur glanced at the thin strip of beach that lined the water. Room enough  for two dragons, yes. But it was difficult to see where the rest of them would be able to land.

“It’s all right,” said Merlin. “They like to swim.”

“That’s as may be,” said Arthur, tilting his head to one side. “But what about their riders?”

It must have been approaching mid-day when the sun finally began to break through the mist. Merlin trained his eyes on it, a pale, milky disc in a sea of swirling cloud. They called to him, the dragons, in his head. Praidan, Lucas, Arcoleis, Rugda, Aethegh, Diamanda.

“Merlin,” they called. “Is it true? Tell us it is not true.”

“Alas, it is true,” he called back. “Come soon.”

“We are coming, we are coming,” they cried, their voices mingling in song.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Merlin dropped his gaze, to find Arthur watching him.

“When will they be here?” said Arthur.

“Soon.” He could feel their approach in his bones. “A gathering of dragons such as this has not been seen outside Ealdor for many years. Freya would have been so…” Merlin couldn’t carry on speaking. A great ball of pain and sorrow welled up in his chest, making his throat tighten and his eyes blur.

“They honour her,” said Arthur, his voice low, with a reassuring strength and depth. “They, and the people that they bear. Who is coming?”

“My m…” Faltering, Merlin bit his lip. What would his mother do? Freya had been her heir. “My mother and father, and yours. Will, of course. Your sister, and her mate.”

“Her mate? But I thought you were to marry my sister?” said Arthur, frowning.

“That is what the dragons say!” Equally puzzled, Merlin shrugged. “They have a rather different perspective on things. Sometimes it’s difficult to know what they mean. But they’ll be here soon. Aithusa first, I think. Then Kilgarrah.”

 

 

 

 

 

Gwen’s heart was in her mouth as they soared through the endless swirling mist. As Aithusa plunged through the clouds, the wind whipped Gwen’s curls across her face. But she did not dare release her hold on the dragon’s hide. Instead, she hid behind a curtain of hair, eyes squeezed shut.

Why had she forced herself into this position? It had seemed like the answer to all her worries, to ride to Avalon, and kill Morgana’s fear of dragons, all with one swift pass of the hammer. But she hadn’t banked on how her own vertigo would make her belly churn, nor on the gnawing knot of anxiety that was growing in her craw. Would Morgana ever forgive her for her presumption? Well, time to worry about that if she survived this hellish flight.

When the dragon lurched to one side, her stomach heaved. She pressed her lips together and swallowed down a scream.

“Hush, oh great gold-worker!” to her astonishment, a voice sounded in her head. “I will not let any harm come to you.”

“Who are you?” Was she going mad? Her already pounding heart kicked up a notch.“Get out of my head!”

“I am Aithusa, of course.” The dragonish chuckle that made her thighs tremble also sounded in her head. “I am mindspeaking you. It’s so much easier when we are flying.”

“Can you hear me too?” Incredulous, Gwen risked opening one eye. The mist below her parted for an instant, revealing the ground far beneath them as a blur of green. She hastily closed her eye again.

“I can!” said Aithusa. “I don’t hear many people. But you… You sound a bit like her. You’re about her weight, too. I almost forgot that you weren’t her.”

To Gwen’s horror, the dragon began to sob, sending great gusts of smoke billowing from its snout that choked her in the slipstream.

“Stop that!” she said, coughing. “Who are you talking about?”

“Freya.” The dragon’s distressed wail echoed around her, bouncing off the clouds and mountains like thunder. “Freya! She died and I miss her! It was all that Pendragon’s fault. I will have his liver for breakfast. I will chew up his stupid armour and spit out the bits. I will...”

“Hush!” Horrified, Gwen realised that Aithusa was talking about Arthur. “You can’t do that! I’m sure it’s not his fault. He is a brave and honourable man!” Just then, a gust of wind caught Gwen’s skirts. Leaning forward, she lay almost horizontal upon the dragon’s knobbly back, her hands reaching as far round as she could. She cast about for a subject change. “Tell me about this Freya. She sounds amazing.”

“She was,” said Aithusa. “She was a brave maiden, and a mighty dragonleader. But an evil witch cursed her, when she became a woman, and she was cast into the shape of a terrible cat. It was she who called me from the egg. It was only I who could tame her when she was cursed. And I nursed her back to health. She was my friend and I loved her with all my heart.”

With a sudden vigorous flap of her wings, Aithusa swerved to avoid a black peak of jagged rock that loomed at them out of the mist.

Shuddering, Gwen buried her face in her hair and tried to focus on Freya’s story.

 

 

 

 

 

Tamping down his anxiety, Merlin poked at the sand and shingle with his stick, flicking pebbles up, while Arthur carried on sharpening his sword. He and Freya had played such a game when they were children, upon the sands of Caerdigeon. That was before she had been cursed, of course. They would flick stones into the water, splashing one another in the shallows with glee. The memory brought a wry smile to his face, before the knot of pain in his chest chased it away. Dropping the stick, he brought the back of his hand up to rub at his eyes, as if to wipe out the memories that brought him such pain, and a sob made his shoulders shake.

“It’s important, you know,” said Arthur. “Remembering the fallen, I mean. And what they mean to you, what they have been to you. It hurts, I know. But it honours them, as well.”

Merlin looked up, then, to find Arthur studying him. A ray of sunlight caught Arthur’s hair, making it gleam, despite all the dirt and grime that still clung to him. They exchanged a wordless look for a moment, before Arthur nodded, as if to say that he understood.

“She was my friend,” whispered Merlin. He out a shaky breath before continuing, his voice a little stronger. “I remember, before she was cursed. We would wrestle on the sand, play hiding games in the caves. We explored every inch of the caverns in Ealdor together. The dragons used to shoo us out of their lairs. More than once I got my breeches singed! Freya could run faster than me.”

“I can’t imagine what torture it must have been for them, sharing a living space with two such mischievous brats,” said Arthur smiling.

The smile shaped Arthur’s eyes into soft ovals with a flash of azure. It pierced Merlin’s shattered heart with its simple beauty, and he blinked.

“Thanks,” he said, a moment later, comforted.

Arthur stood up and crossed the short distance between them, to sit behind Merlin, resting his chin on Merlin’s shoulder. His hands, circling Merlin’s waist, were strong and solid, warming Merlin and lending him their strength. Together they sat in vigil, guarding the fallen until the mourners could arrive.

 

 

 

 

 

Upon the beach by the lake, a small but solemn party assembled. Ygraine and Hunith stood forward, Morgana and Guinevere at their shoulders. A little behind them, Morgause incanted the words of ritual that commended Freya’s spirit to the Goddess. To the rear, Arthur and Merlin, Balinor and Uther, the princes of the realm, stood guard over their leaders. Ranks of dragons bobbed on the water, their wings out flat to the side, heads stretched towards the sky in song.

At the bidding of Queen Ygraine, Merlin and Arthur cast the coracle adrift, and it bobbed along the avenue of dragons. As it passed each one, the creature added its flame to the pyre, until the dancing fires leapt high into the air, sending Freya’s spirit soaring to the sky. Growing smaller and smaller, it drifted, until it was just a glowing speck upon the horizon.

One by one, the dragons flapped ashore, each taking one of the gathered party away, until the beach was empty, save for Lady Hunith and the mighty Arcoleis, the golden dragon that she rode.

“Goodbye, my daughter,” said Hunith, quietly into the gathering gloom. _“Mîn dohtor, mîn hreðer”_

The hazel pyre finally drifted upon a far shore. On the edge of sight, a ghostly hand broke the surface for a moment, as if in farewell, but then vanished, leaving only a ripple to mar the surface of the lake in widening circles for a few moments before it was gone.

“Come, my lady,” said Arcoleis, nuzzling at Hunith’s neck with a gentleness that belied her bulk. “The witch is dead. Freya is at peace. Let us look to the future.”

Hunith nodded, and leapt upon Arcoleis’s back with an agility that would have graced someone half her age. Soon the only sound was the distant beat of dragon wings over the lap-lap of waves on the shore. .  

 

 

 

 

 

Queen Ygraine shifted uncomfortably upon the throne. Fatigue and nausea passed over her in a horrible wave that left her wet-mouthed and clammy handed. She clamped her fingers around the arms of the throne and willed the long moment to pass.

“Ygraine?” said Hunith, softly by her side. “Are you all right?”

“I am fine,” said Ygraine, with a faint smile. She wondered if she might have to send Sefa for a bucket. “At least, it’s nothing sinister!” She beckoned to her maidservant. “Sefa, have Alice attend me.”

“The Usher of Souls is attending a birthing, Your Majesty,” said Sefa with a demure curtsey.

“Very well then.” Ygraine sighed. She may be the Queen of Camelot, but the ceremony of a birthing could not be interrupted. Not for the first time, she resolved to have Alice train more acolytes.“Just fetch me some dry oat cakes and elderflower water.”

“Are you sure you are all right?” said Hunith, frowning. “What ails you? Is it your monthly cycle?”

“You could say that.” Ygraine let out a mirthless chuckle.

“Then, are you sure you want to hear Morgana’s petition today? We can wait a day or two?” said Hunith.

“To be quite honest with you, Hunith,” whispered Ygraine from behind her hand. “I’m not sure that will help much!”

“What do you…” Hunith studied her for a moment before breaking into a sudden incredulous smile. “Oh, by the Goddess!” she said, also hiding her mouth behind her hand. “A blessing!”

“Hush!” whispered Ygraine, returning Hunith’s smile with a tentative one of her own. “Yes, it is true. At my age, a blessing indeed. But keep it quiet. I have not told the court.”

“Ah,” said Hunith, nodding, her face a mask.

“She shall be called Morrigan,” Ygraine added.

“Ah,” said Hunith again, adding, in a seemingly innocent voice. “And if it’s a boy?”

“Ah.” Pressing her lips together, Ygraine shrugged. “Then we shall see.”

She was hoping for a girl, of course. A girl could be an heir if Morgana left the kingdom. It was clear that Morgana’s appetite for the throne had diminished since she had bonded with the mastersmith. As Queen of a complex nation like Camelot, Ygraine had an extensive intelligence network, and was well aware of the likely topic of Morgana’s upcoming petition. It was through this intelligence that she also understood that Hunith’s boy would not be upset by this development. On the contrary, the auguries hinted that he and Prince Arthur had grown more than close in the time when they had been duelling the witch, Nimueh. But the boy himself was of little consequence - it was his mother that Ygraine had to placate.

In the meantime, the new baby would remain a secret.

As for Morgana - well, Ygraine was no fool. There was no point forcing her errant adopted daughter to keep her post at Camelot if she no longer wanted it. No, she would allow Morgana her petition, but not before she’d made Morgana beg for it. It wouldn’t do for the court to think that she was a pushover.

Sefa reappeared, curtseying as she placed a plate of oatcakes and some cheese on the table by Ygraine’s side. Ygraine dismissed her with a wave of her hand, and took a little nibble. Instantly feeling some relief from her nausea, she swallowed, and took a sip or two of water flavoured with elderflower.

“All right?” said Hunith.

“Much better.” Ygraine nodded. She could face the day, now. Raising her voice, she commanded the guards to open the doors. “Please let Crown Princess Morgana Pendragon and Mastersmith Guinevere Leodegrance enter.” She settled back onto the throne, wondering if tradition would allow her to get the damn thing upholstered. Otherwise, the Goddess only knew how uncomfortable the next few months would be.

 

 

 

 

 

When the wide doors were flung open, Morgana lifted her chin and stepped over the threshold of the Great Hall, hoping to display a confidence that she didn’t feel. Gwen’s hand was warm within her own, and she was nervous enough about the Queen’s reaction to that. But the real gamble was padding along behind them, claws clinking on the bare flags, staring inquisitively at the rich, and Morgana couldn’t help noting flammable, tapestries that hung all around.

“No sneezing,” Gwen was admonishing Aithusa as usual. “Don’t open your jaws! Keep your fangs hidden away.”

Morgana didn’t have the benefit of Gwen’s telepathic link with the dragon, but she could sense the excitement that emanated from it in waves as they passed ranks of shrieking courtiers. Some of them shrank away as they approached, while other looked on in open curiosity at the spectacle of a dragon entering the court in the presence of the Queen.

Still a little nervous of the dragon’s volatile temperament, she couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief when she saw that Dragontamer Hunith was beside Queen Ygraine. Squeezing between Morgana and Gwen, separating them, Aithusa scampered the remaining steps towards the dragontamer, and knelt with her muzzle upon Hunith’s feet and her wings tucked by her side.

Hunith’s lips moved as she knelt to soothe the agitated creature, but Morgana could not hear what she said, such was the uproar that rippled round the room.

“Silence!” Queen Ygraine clapped her hands, and glared at Morgana. “What is the meaning of this? You come to me dressed as dragontamers, with a dragon in tow? Morgana?”

Moistening her lips, Morgana opened her mouth to speak, but her prepared speech was interrupted by Gwen.

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace. Majesty. Your Majesty, I mean!” Gwen curtseyed low. “She has suffered a terrible loss. The dragon, I mean! Aithusa, the dragon, that is. And she won’t leave me. I tried to persuade her, but when I locked her in the stables she burnt a hole in them, and I thought it best if. I mean. I am sorry I didn’t ask permission. Your Majesty, please forgive me! The poor little thing, she was heartbroken. And it wasn’t Morgana’s fault, it was all mine. ”

“Hush, Gwen.” said Morgana. Her heart sank at the stern expression on the Queen’s face.

“Morgana?” said Ygraine. “The last time we spoke, you could not even bear to look at the Pendragon coat of arms. And yet, here you are bringing unbidden a dragon into the presence of the Queen of Camelot. What do you have to say?”

“Your Majesty.” Morgana swallowed, searching for the right words. “I have come to appreciate - no, admire - these wonderful beasts, although I will allow that they still fill me with trepidation, and I am in no hurry to repeat the journey that I had upon Kilgharrah’s back to the shores of Avalon. But Aithusa, here, refuses to leave Gwen’s side. And…” she lifted her chin with a hint of defiance. “And so do I. So therefore, I have come to an… accommodation with Aithusa. And that is why I have come to you in petition.”

She strode up to the foot of the dais upon which the throne sat, with Ygraine gazing down upon her. Kneeling in obeisance, she prayed with all her heart that the Goddess would move the Queen to grant her desire.

“Speak!” said Ygraine.

“Your Majesty.” Morgana looked up, still kneeling in supplication, the cold hard floor painful on her knees even through her breeches. “I beg leave of you to relinquish my position as crown princess of Camelot, so that I can accompany Gwen and Aithusa to Ealdor. I beg you to make me an ambassador, and to pass the succession to another, more worthy than I.”

“And what of the kingdom?” Ygraine said. Her voice was as cold as steel and as sharp as the first frost of winter. “What of your duty as my adopted daughter?”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty!” Morgana’s chest felt tight and her eyes blurred. She bowed lower, placing her forehead upon the rough flagstones hands flat on the floor in supplication. “I am not afraid. Imprison me if you will. Do with me what you will, but I beg you, spare Gwen!”

“Hush, child.” Ygraine let out an audible sigh. “I am many things, but I am not a monster. Come, rise. Speak. Have you discussed this plans with the dragontamers? With Lady Hunith?”

“No, my lady.” Shaking her head, Morgana rose slowly to her knees, head still bowed.

“Then are you sure that she wants you? After you so callously dismissed the suit of her son?”

“I’m so sorry,” said Morgana, gazing earnestly at the dragontamer who looked, if anything, amused.  

“Come, Lady Hunith!” said Ygraine, smiling. She took a sip from her goblet and then waved away her maidservant. “What do you think I should do with my disloyal daughter? It seems that despite not wishing to marry your son, she has decided to come to live with you.”

“I would be happy to foster her, Your Majesty!” said Hunith, with a wry twist of her lips. “And I can hardly blame her for not wanting to marry my son. Lovely though he is, I would be blind if I had not noticed that his affections lie elsewhere!”

“All right, all right.” said Ygraine. She sighed again, shifting on her seat and rearranging her skirts. “Morgana, for now your request is granted.”

“Oh my lady!” Morgana wrung her hands. “You are most merciful, thank you!”

“Hush!” Ygraine lifted an admonishing finger. “However, you will owe me a favour of my asking, when I ask it. And I accept only upon condition that any daughters that you may bear or adopt will return to Camelot for fostering. Is that clear? Now rise, my dear, and call in your formerly betrothed. We have a wedding to annul.”

“Yes, Your Majesty!” Morgana’s heart skittered  as she stood, then nearly stopped when she met Hunith’s steady stare, heavy as it was with grief and worry.

“Lady Hunith,” said Ygraine. “Do you accept this petition?”

“I do,” said Hunith.

“Thank you, my dear.” Ygraine nodded. “Lady Hunith has lost a daughter this week. It is fitting that she will gain two more.”

“I only hope that I am worthy,” said Morgana in a small voice.

“See to it that you are.” said Ygraine.

At that moment, there was a sudden commotion at the back of the hall, a clatter of steel upon stone, and loud yells and screams.

“Let me through!” yelled a familiar voice. “Aithusa? Where are you?”

“Merlin?” said Morgana.

Sure enough, Merlin stumbled into the room, eyes glowing. an aura around him that hinted of magic. Arthur followed close behind, sword drawn.

“Guards! Seize him! Seize them both!” Prince Uther leapt to his feet, bellowing at the top of his voice, so loudly it made Morgana jump, and shaking his fists. “Arthur! How dare you enter, armed, without leave!”

But when the guards on the door tried to jump on them both, they were flung backwards as if by an invisible hand.

“Wait! Aithusa! There you are!” said Merlin, ignoring the commotion in his wake as he ran forward and fell upon the supine figure of the white dragon with a dramatic cry. “What are you doing here? I saw the burnt out stable and I thought…”

“Merlin!” said Hunith, in an icy voice. “Put down your magical shield at once and stop sending out repulsing spells. I have taught you better! Ygraine, I do apologise for my son’s appalling behaviour.”

“Sorry Mother!” said Merlin, getting back onto his feet, but there was a mutinous set to his mouth when his eyes stopped glowing.

“Don’t worry, Hunith, dear,” said Queen Ygraine. “Arthur!” she added, equally sharply.“Drop your sword, this minute.”

Arthur gaped for a moment, then sheathed his sword and, finally remembering his manners, bowed low before the throne.

Morgana grinned. Trust her brother to save her skin by being even less concerned with protocol than she was.

The Queen rose from the throne and cast an eye out over the assembled courtiers. No doubt the gossip would already be travelling through the citadel and out into the lower town.

“Court is dismissed.” She sent them all out with a disdainful wave of her hand. “No, not you!” she added when Guinevere looked as though she might be about to join them. “You can stay, as long as that cute little dragonling by your side promises to behave herself.”

“She does,” said Merlin, Gwen and Hunith together.

“And Morgause,” Ygraine continued, ignoring the interruption. “Arthur, Merlin, Morgana and Hunith, you may stay as well. Oh, and Uther, as I suppose you’ll just pester me for information afterwards otherwise. Gorlois, you may go.”

Prince Consort Uther opened his mouth as if to speak, but Ygraine silenced him by raising her hand.

“Please keep quiet, Uther, dear,” she said. “And for the love of the Goddess, no more yelling. You nearly scared me to death with that almighty bellow at our son! The rest of you can all go. There are clearly some things that the house of Pendragon and the house of Wyllt need to discuss. In private.”

As the courtiers filed out, Morgana met Hunith’s sombre gaze once more. But it was Gwen who spoke first.

“My lady Dragontamer.” Gwen curtseyed deep towards Hunith. “I formally request to stay with you and Aithusa while she is recovering from her grief.  And, with permission from Prince Arthur, I would like to give this to your son, Merlin, as a token of my regard and thanks.

Carefully, she lifted the Pendragon pendant that Arthur had given her from around her neck. Beckoning Merlin across, she looped it over his head, so that it nestled against the base of his throat. It fell into place as if it belonged there, resting against his collarbone, and a stray bolt of sunlight flashed through the high windows, glinting on the dull grey metal. When Morgana looked back at the pendant, it had returned to its original golden hue, as if transformed by the light of the sun itself. And then it seemed to wink at her, its eye flashing vivid blue against gold, like Merlin’s eyes themselves.

“Thank you, Gwen,” he said. “I pledge my loyalty to the house of Pendragon from this day forward.” His eyes flicked up and he exchanged a loaded glance with Arthur that Morgana could not interpret. “If you would have me, that is,” he added.

Arthur swallowed. He appeared blindsided for a moment.

“Arthur?” Merlin tilted his head to one side.

“Of course we - I - will have you,” said Arthur, smiling as if the sun had just come out from behind a cloud. “Idiot.” With one gentle hand he clouted Merlin on the back, so that Merlin staggered forward a little.

“Ow!” Merlin grinned back, such open admiration in his gaze that it felt intrusive just to look on it. “Clotpoll!”

“And so it seems that the gifts have made their way to their destined owners, after all,” said Queen Ygraine, sinking back onto the throne with a sigh. “Arthur has Merlin’s dragon-forged sword. Merlin has Arthur’s pendant. Morgana has Guinevere’s ring, and Gwen, dear, you have Morgana’s dragon-summoning horn. As the Goddess herself has showered her goodwill upon your partnerships, what choice do I have but to add my own blessing? Who am I to gainsay the Goddess? May your marriages be fruitful and content.”

Involuntarily fingering the ring that dangled loose on a chain around her neck, Morgana blushed and bowed low before the throne.

As she straightened, she heard Ygraine mutter to Hunith.

“Mordred. If it’s a boy,” said the Queen.

She wondered for a moment what the Queen must mean, then shrugged and turned to Gwen with a wide smile on her face and a heart full of hope.

 

 

 

 

 

 

*END*

 

 

 

 

 

 

**~**

 

**Epilogue**

 

**~**

 

 

It was one of those fine days in early spring that hinted at the promise of summer. The daffodils were over, and clouds of bluebells were beginning to peep through the undergrowth in the darkling woods.

Upon the Queenbarrow, however, Elyan's heart was clouded. 

"I understand why we need to atone," he said between gritted teeth, standing to wipe sweat from his brow as he leant upon his spade. "But is all this..." he swept his free hand around, taking in the fallen barrow, the silent standing stones, and the largely female bystanders, "...strictly necessary?"

"You desecrated the Queenbarrow, by entering between the winterstones without seeking permission." said High Priestess Morgause, frowning. "Even Gwaine normally has better manners than to go in without asking. You must appease her."

"I know that," said Elyan, hastily. With a grunt, he grabbed a large stone and lifted it, staggering over to the waiting cart. "And we're all happy to do this for the Goddess. I just don't know why we need an audience."

"No-one invited them!" Morgana, who was standing with Morgause and Gwen to oversee the work, shrugged. "They just came. Camelot is a free country, and they are free women."

It was all Gwaine's fault. The growing group of tittering girls were mainly focussed on him, sniggering behind their fans and occasionally exploding into loud, appreciative giggles. Bloody Gwaine played up to it, as well. He'd discarded his shirt and thrown it into the crowd long ago. Every so often he'd wink at them. And then there were the lewd comments.

"My father says I'll be able to pick one, when I'm older," one of them was saying. "I think I'll pick the big one with all the muscles. I bet he's got a big thingy."

Percival dropped a heavy rock with a loud curse.

"I like Gwaine," said another. "He's got such lovely muscles." When Gwaine looked up and blew her a kiss, she squealed loudly. Elyan winced and clasped his ears.

"I like the Mastersmith's brother myself." A doe-eyed girl who couldn't have seen more than thirteen summers eyed Elyan up and down, her green eyes wide with open appreciation. His cheeks grew hot and he turned his back. "He's got a lovely bum!" she added. "I bet it's really strong. I wonder what it feels like to touch?"

Hastily he turned back the other way.

"Can't you do something?" he muttered, pleading with his sister. "Get that dragon to scare them away or something?"

"Sorry, Brother," said Gwen, although the twinkle in her eye belied her regretful tone. "Aithusa is a wild creature."

With a heavy heart, Elyan turned back to his work. But a second later his mood lifted, when a clear horn call sounded. Lady Morgana was summoning the dragon!

"Thank you, my lady!" He looked up and smiled at her. "I owe you a favour."

"Goddess be praised," breathed Percival.

"You're welcome." She nodded and flashed him an arch smile. "I'll hold you to that."

Not long afterwards, when the mid-day sun was high overhead and they'd stopped for an uncomfortable lunch upon the fallen stones, the sounds of dragon wings filled the air. The girls disappeared in a flurry of skirts and high-pitched screams. Elyan rested his head upon the standing stone behind him and sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the goddess.

"Ooh!" said the dragon. She landed, claws skittering on the bare rocks, her breath a sulphorous stench that made Elyan's nostrils flare. "Knights! And a picnic! I'm hungry! Can I have this one's liver?"

"No!" said Gwen sharply.

"We'll think about it," said Morgause at the same time. "Maybe one of the lazier ones." She glared pointedly at Elyan.

Elyan sighed and struggled painfully to his feet. His body protested but he started lugging at another one of the heavy cairnstones. It was going to be a long afternoon.

 

 

 

 

 

From their vantage, where they lay entwined upon a sunny knoll deep within the woods, Merlin and Arthur had a splendid view across the valley to the citadel. High above their heads, a swallow swooped past, and then another. The sun beat down. Arthur's limbs were pleasantly warm and his eyelids beginning to get heavy. It was perfect. Or, it would have been if they hadn't had company.

"Look, you can go, we'll be fine!" Merlin was saying. "The witch is dead, now. And anyway, it was Morgana she wanted..."

"I'll be the judge of that." Kilgharrah's reply made the ground beneath Arthur's prone body shake. Kilgharrah had insisted on accompanying them on their journey, and sat across the clearing from them.

"You can mate here, and I will keep watch." He sat back on his haunches and started to polish his talons on a rock.

"Kilgharrah!" Merlin's outraged expression made his eyes flash, and his pout hollowed his cheekbones.

"I'd have thought that a great dragontamer like you would not have so much trouble banishing the beasts," Arthur murmured, turning to trace the line of Merlin's arse through his riding breeches with the flat of his hand. 

Merlin shivered, shoulders flexing. "Stop that," he whispered back. "I'm not doing this with him here!"

"For the Goddess's sake." Sighing, Arthur turned away from Merlin's tempting rear end to lie on his back. His breeches felt uncomfortably tight and days of frustration from the pomp and ceremony had taken their toll. "Can't you just wave your hand and say 'begone foul worm' or something like that?"

"It's not that easy," Merlin said in a tight voice. "What if my mother ordered him to stay with us?"

"I can hear what you are saying, you know," Kilgharrah rumbled, "and I find your language most offensive, young Pendragon."

"Well bugger off, then, and let us fuck in peace," said Arthur, patience running thin.

"Arthur!" Merlin's eyes were round with shock. "You can't talk to him like that!"

"Watch me." Emboldened by the fact that he hadn't been incinerated yet, Arthur added "Get your ugly leathery hide back to Ealdor, and stop being such a pervert, Kilgharrah."

"Well really!" Kilgharrah drew up his wings in affront, and a wisp of smoke curled out of his nose. "Of all the ungrateful... I've a mind to leave you here."

"We'll live," grumbled Arthur, too frustrated to be concerned. "I'll shoot you a deer, if it makes you go away. Now piss off."

"I know when I'm not wanted." Kilgarrah shuffled his bulk around and lifted his wings in preparation for flight. "But you needn't think I'll come running when you want to fly home!"

"Oh, spare us," said Arthur testily. "We have legs."

"Suit yourselves."

A few minutes and a good deal of dragonish grumbling later, they had the clearing to themselves.

"So." Merlin turned to Arthur with an appreciative look that made Arthur's belly clench in anticipation. "After the dragontamer title yourself, I see."

"Hardly." Arthur chuckled. "That fat, sulky reptile is too much of a handful."

"Oi!" Merlin poked him in the side. "That's my kin you're talking about!"

"Don't care." Arthur buried his nose into the soft flesh behind Merlin's ear, tickling him with his breath, revelling in Merlin's warmth, his surprised squawks. He fumbled at the ties on Merlin's breeches, pressing Merlin onto the long grass, following him down. Merlin's lips were rosy red, parted in invitation. Arthur bent to suck at them. "You've got too many clothes on, and that dragon was stopping me from doing anything about it."

"My hero." With a muffled groan, Merlin drew his fingers through Arthur's hair. "God. Yes. Do that. Do that again," he said, breathless, as Arthur rolled his hips.

This was the first chance they'd had to slip away since the battle with Nimueh, and Arthur's erection was straining against his clothes. He bent a questing finger, and inserted it between Merlin's lips. Merlin sucked it in, cheeks hollowing. Their eyes locked together.

With a strength that belied his slim frame, Merlin turned them both over, so that he was lying on top of Arthur, tilting his hips back and forth in a relentless rhythm that had Arthur clenching at the grass, mouth open, letting out little grunts of appreciation. Merlin drew Arthur's cock from his breeches and stroked it with a firm grip, slow and teasing.

"Merlin, please." Arthur, helpless, lay panting, clenching his buttocks minutely with each careful stroke, hardly daring to hope at first.

Merlin gazed down at him and smirked, licking his lips in a clear signal of intent that made Arthur's heart pound in anticipation.

"Impatient. Get this off first!" Merlin tugged at Arthur's shirt.

Arthur let him slip it over his head, and lay back on the grass, naked from the waist up with his cock jutting through the gap in his breeches.

"Goddess. Look at you." Merlin gazed at him for a moment, his hand still working gently on Arthur's aching cock. "Good enough to eat." He bent forward to trail hot kisses down Arthur's body.

"Oh, oh." Arthur groaned and closed his eyes. Merlin had done this for him once before, and his dreams had been filled with the delicious memory of it. The slide of those full lips against his rampant cock. The reality was even better than the memory. Slipping his hands into Merlin's hair, Arthur gave his head a gentle push. 

"Impatient." Merlin's eyebrows arched as he looked up at Arthur, cheeks flushed, hair askew. His lips parted and his tongue snaked out to circle the nub of Arthur's nipple. Cold air followed it in, sharp and sweet. 

"Tease." Arthur groaned. When Merlin's mouth finally wrapped around the end of Arthur's cock, Arthur let out a heavy sigh of approval. "Oh, Goddess, yes!"

Merlin's mouth, his throat and his lips, so sinful and yet so perfect, stretched obscenely around the Arthur's wide girth. Arthur closed his eyes and let the sensations take him. He felt weightless, as if he was flying, soaring above the world, with no limit to the joy that Merlin would bring him with his lips and tongue and fingers. A bright burn upon his shoulder sent sparks of pleasure shooting through his body and he spilled, gasping.

Afterwards, as Arthur pumped Merlin lazily, eyes lidded, Merlin's body writhed beneath his touch, until he spent, gasping and tense and thrusting hard into Arthur's waiting hand. 

"I didn't think I'd ever get to do that again!" said Merlin, later, when they lay sated and panting upon the greensward, staring up at the over-arching sky. With one finger, he traced the tingling pattern on Arthur's shoulder. "What's that?"

Curious, Arthur craned his neck to see. A faint pattern had etched upon his skin, in the shape of a dragon. He frowned. That hadn't been there before. 

"You've got one as well," he said, bending to nuzzle at Merlin's shoulder. "Is it a tattoo? I haven't noticed it before." 

"I don't know." Merlin shrugged and grinned. "I felt it when we. You know." His eyes danced with mischief. "Maybe it's a sign of approval from the Goddess or something?

"I wouldn't be surprised." Arthur chuckled. "Well. I suppose we really do belong to each other."

"It must be destiny." Merlin linked their fingers together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*END*

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story arose because I was interested in writing a more matriarchal take on Camelot, inspired by visits I have made to European neolithic sacred spaces such as passage tombs. It is not my intention to offend any modern-day pagans, for whom I have only respect. The flyting and other elements of the betrothal ceremony are loosely based on some Viking wedding traditions, including one in which the betrothed descend into the womb of the earth to retrieve an ancestral artefact, and emerge reborn.


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